


Dances in Darkness - Book 3: Warden

by HigheverRains



Series: Dances In Darkness [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 153,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigheverRains/pseuds/HigheverRains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Those people will be remembered," Leliana said softly, drawing close, "by all those who live on now. People will tell their stories and remember." Eideann shook her head.</p><p>"<i>I</i> am the one who will recount what was lost," she said softly. "<i>I</i> am the one who will live on."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann returns to Ostagar to deal with some unfinished business; Alistair and Eideann return to the place they first met; something is wrong with Wynne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome.
> 
> If you have not read Books 1 and 2, it is recommended you do so, or some things may not make sense. ~HigheverRains

Her feet were cold in her leather boots, the snows crunching underfoot as she wove a path through tattered pennants and abandoned remains of the Fereldan Army. It was like walking in a dream, returning to this place. Bodies lay, blue and bloated, frozen over and preserved in the frigid chill that had eclipsed the end of the world. And the ruins of towers, bone white and thrust high into the sky, cracked and scarred, made the place a maze.

She could see her breath misting before her and was glad of the warm fur-lined Warden cloak wrapped about her. She was always cold now, it seemed, like the taint in her blood was reminding her not to forget.

There were darkspawn there. She could sense them now, dark and hazy in her mind, a suggestion, a niggling feeling, and every so often whispers.

She had gotten use to the whispers, the lull of them, snatches in the darkness, half-spoken in her dreams. Her dreams were still nightmares full of roaring dragons and Blight.

But she was no longer a fledgling Warden. They had spent a few days at Soldier’s Peak, resting and tending injuries and going over the plan. Eideann had stopped wearing her family sword, but it was still strapped to the saddle of her horse, just in case the opportunity came to put it to purpose. That was the one thing she kept for herself. All else she pushed away.

_A Cousland always does their duty first._

Howe was a duty, a vengeance to be taken. But Ferelden was her primary concern now, and she had gained a measure of peace after devoting herself utterly to that cause. She stopped worrying about Fergus, telling herself he was dead because he probably was. She had stopped feeling the pain of the loss, choosing to subdue it with thoughts of the usurper on Ferelden’s throne. There was enough to do without trying to reclaim Highever as well. She let it be, and released it.

 _That was a different life,_ she told herself. _For now, that is not you._ Not unless duty demanded it, and then she would take up that again. But for the moment, she was just the Warden.

She heard the crunching of footsteps and knew by the flicker of awareness in her head it was Alistair. It did not surprise her that sensing the darkspawn meant sensing other Wardens too. It was a little distracting sometimes, but she had turned it to her advantage. She no longer needed to pay attention to where he was, and she realized that his sensing her was how they had worked together so well all along. They were both skilled, and he was good at matching her, and this was just extra help.

Wynne was beside him when she looked back, and Angus at the mage’s side, plodding close to her. She had repainted his Kaddis, a white one she had traded for as they made their way south through the Bannorn. Now, the wardog seemed to blend in with the snow.

She had seen some interesting archives at Soldier’s Peak about mabari being joined, as griffons had been. She wondered if this wasn’t exactly what had happened to Angus, who had taken to having bad dreams himself as of late and who had no fear of the darkspawn. She had seen dogs die at Ostagar in the time she had spent there prior to the battle, but Angus was still fine. She decided it was probably very likely that he was as tainted as she was.

The Warden swords felt cool and well-shaped in her hands, the thick grip comfortable and sure. She felt like a real veteran of darkspawn wars now.

As they had made their way south, she had had the chance to test them properly. The darkspawn had progressed beyond the Wilds. The village of Lothering was a charred husk when they had passed through, its flowers and trees and fields blackened and burned or gnarled and blighted. The Wilds itself groaned with the weight of the taint, the colors gone, the swamps made toxic in the wake of the darkspawn.

Ostagar before her was a grave. And somewhere beyond, deeper in the mists, the world had been swallowed inward and the Archdemon had stirred. She did not know where it was now, not here, not near here. But it was awake, alive, her dreams only confirmed what her heart and head knew. And soon they would run out of time.

The signs of the darkspawn were there in every twisted totem, every blighted body half buried in the snows. Eideann stepped through the ruins of the hastily erected gate, smashed into three pieces and off kilter now, and looked about.

“Something about this place,” Alistair said quietly, “makes me feel old.” She had to agree. She could not shake the sense of the nightmare. Wynne looked to him with her sharp blue eyes.

“And what exactly are you implying, Alistair?” she asked softly. He gazed out across the ruins, eyes narrowed.

“I just mean I was a different person then.” Something in his voice ached. “I _believed_ him, you know? That it would be a glorious battle, that we’d win.” Wynne drew up beside him, and Eideann closed her eyes a moment, half to pull herself back from that feeling and half to try and pinpoint the darkspawn ahead.

“I did too,” the mage said quietly. “We were all a little younger the last time we were here.” The gentleness and the sorrow in her voice made Eideann draw a deep breath. Alistair sighed, then smiled a little.

“Well,” he said with a small smirk, “not you. You’ve always been old.” Humor to hide the pain.

“With lip like that, son, you’ll be lucky if you live to be _half_ my age,” Wynne scowled. Was it just yesterday that she had told Alistair she hoped her own son, taken from her at birth, was like him? Was it just yesterday she had said it.

Alistair just gave her a wry smile, slightly apologetic, and then crossed to Eideann to stand with her at the entrance of Ostagar. His smile faded to something grim.

“Anything?”

“Scouts maybe? The bridge perhaps? Some pockets here and there but no horde, just stragglers. The horde has moved north.”

“And vanished,” he added, voicing the suspicions they both shared. He gave a nod to himself. “Well, there’s nothing for it.” He looked to her then, a sign he would follow where she led.

The darkspawn had done a little rearranging of their own, setting up barriers of rubble and repurposed barricades to make Ostagar into a weaving maze. It was a habit of theirs, she was learning slowly, to do such things. Maybe the Archdemon wanted it, but she suspected it was something more simple. Mazes made it easier to capture prey. Darkspawn, whatever they were, did in fact capture people. She had heard rumors they took prisoners, and so many had gone missing after Ostagar she believed it too. Morrigan had spoken to her in the aftermath of the battle, when she first woke in the hut in the Wilds, of darkspawn dragging survivors away. Maker only knew why, and it chilled her to think on it, so she didn’t. Instead, she stepped down to the first platform, where the medical tents and the impromptu Chantry services had been.

The first darkspawn came in pockets, like they were expecting something (they could sense them in return after all). But they were just scouts, and Eideann had already learned to ignore the burn of their blighted blood, the snarl and the fear it inspired. She cut her way through them, deadly and poised, and then watched the blood run down her blade to stain the snow red.

She thought of the pendant tucked under the Warden tunic she wore and grimaced. It felt strange being there. Alistair was watching her with guarded eyes.

The wall of the temple where King Cailin had held his last war meeting had apparently suffered damage during the battle. A gaping hole opened up into the foyer at the far end, where trees had split through the flagstones and had been wriggling their way to the light before they were strangled by the taint. She took that way, stepping over the wall and into the temple, where the king’s table still stood, dusted with snow, the map a watermarked mess of faded paper, illegible from the winter.

At the end of the temple, another group of darkspawn was fighting over something, but they looked up when Eideann and Alistair approached, ghosting about the tables with weapons ready. One of these was an emissary, and Alistair went straight for him, the familiar strike of the Templar’s Smite slamming through the temple and forcing the snow into a packed crater.

Eideann cut her way through the others to him, and they moved as one to finish off the last pair. Then Alistair froze, staring down at the body of the emissary, its face contorted from the impact of the Smite. He looked like he might be sick. Eideann followed his gaze and her eyes narrowed. Then she bent down to yank the gilded greaves from the creature’s legs.

The gold plate was dulled with filth, and a little battered. But there was no mistaking them. Eideann carefully tucked them away into her pack, then grimaced.

“What’s the matter, Alistair?” Wynne said when she had caught up with him. He gave her a haunted look, pointedly avoiding the darkspawn.

“I don’t know,” he said in a sharp, quiet voice. “It just feels wrong to find this here. Pawed over by darkspawn and thick with their rot. It was _his_.” Angus gave a sharp bark, curling about Alistair’s legs and smearing kaddis onto the man’s plate. Wynne reached to touch Alistair’s arm gently.

“I know,” she sighed. “I feel it too. But he is not the first king to ever fall in battle, or event he first to fall to the darkspawn.” Alistair clenched his fists.

“Yes, but this wound cuts deeper,” he said with gritted teeth.

_Watch over Alistair._

“And it will bleed longer,” Wynne said softly, “But we _must_ keep moving. No doubt the darkspawn are eager to give us plenty more reasons to mourn.” There was steel in her voice.

Eideann pushed the memory of Cailin away. She sighed, considering the path ahead and then shook her head.

“I need a moment,” she said quietly, setting her pack down and telling Angus to stay. Then she stalked away, up the snowy steps to the place where the Grey Warden Eideann had been born. Daveth and Jory had stood there beside her in the wind and the darkness. The space seemed smaller in daylight, and the table was completely covered in snow. She was walking atop it all where it was buried in white. Her eyes paused on the spot where Duncan had run Ser Jory through, and she could still see his blood on the bone-white column. With each step she felt herself sink deeper into that night, like stepping back in time.

The darkspawn had hardly touched the spot, and she closed her eyes a moment to listen to the sound of the pennants still flapping in the breeze. For a moment, she could almost hear their voices. And then it was gone.

She carried on towards the overlook, which lay half-covered in the shadow from the morning sun. Something was jutting out of the snow near the ledge, just outside that shadow. She would have missed it if the light had not caught it just so. She went and bent to uncover it, suspicions rising, and pulled it free, dusting it off. The Joining Chalice, cut crystal stained with the blood of ages, still intact after all that. She held it in both hands, standing in the shadow so her own armor would not glint, and gazed across the ruins and the Wilds as she had done so long ago. It sent a chill down her spine.

She heard footsteps and knew without looking it was Alistair who approached. He did not speak, just drew alongside her to look out across what remained of the ruins and the battered army, the Wilds and Ferelden. Eideann glanced to him a moment, then silently held out the Joining Chalice.

_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant…_

He took it, his lips parting silently, and then he swallowed and she heard him tuck it away into his pack for safe keeping.

For a little time they just stood there, silent, gazing over all that was lost on the spot where they had met, feeling the power of all that bound them together in that moment. The damage done at Ostagar could not fade away, but for a time it seemed the hurt had. There was a strength in seeing the place after the battle, resolute and determined to go on.

And then Alistair shifted beside her, his eyes sliding to her.

“Here,” he said softly, breaking that eternal silence between them. “Look at this.” She looked to him then, and it took her a moment to see what he was holding low down between them. “Do you know what this is?” It was a rose, blood red and blossoming. The petals were unfurled, soft as silk. Eideann’s eyes flickered up to Alistair.

She felt raw and drained here, so she opted for humor, unable to deal with the emotional impact of more, and wary of what his intentions were.

“Your new weapon of choice?” she said simply, raising an eyebrow. He grinned.

“Yes, that’s right,” he nodded. “Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements. Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent!” At least he had run with it. At least there was that. Eideann caught herself smiling and schooled it away. He softened, holding it out a little further, urging her to take it. “Or, you know, it could just be a rose. I know that’s pretty dull in comparison.” He was blushing. She carefully reached to take it. He was not going to stop until she did.

“Sentiment,” she said quietly, “can be a pretty potent weapon.” He sombered, his eyes going soft.

“Is it that easy to see right through me?” he asked, then looked away, back towards the Wilds and the view of Ostagar. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” He ducked his head a little, licking his lips. “I picked it in Lothering.”

Eideann’s mind leapt to Leliana, to her vision and the Chantry garden, and something inside her stirred.

“I remember thinking,” Alistair continued, haltingly like the words were hard, “how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?” He sighed. “I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come and the taint would just destroy it. So I’ve had it ever since.” She recalled him discussing something with Wynne about preserving something before they had reached Soldier’s Peak. Suddenly she realized what that conversation had been about. Alistair glanced sidelong to her, and she considered him for a moment, strong nose, the curve of his jaw, his soft eyes.

“And what do you intend to do with it?” she asked carefully, her fingers tightening about the stem because she did not want to give it back now, after such words, after such sensations.

“I thought,” he said quietly, “that I might give it to you actually.” He was nervous. His eyes looked back out to the Wilds. “In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you.”

Eideann froze. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. Her hand was shaking a little. One of the thorns was pricking her thumb and keeping her there, in that space, right there, with him and nothing else.

_A Cousland always does their duty first._

She shoved the thought aside.

“Feeling a little thorny are we?” she asked, feeling a slight flush in her own cheeks. She ducked her head, turning away a little as his eyes snapped up wide to stare at her. Then he gave a laugh, caught off guard, the warm sort of laugh that had kept her sane these weeks of travelling.

“Wow,” he chuckled. “She’ll never see through _that_ I told myself. Boy, was I wrong.” But he was smirking a little at her now, and then he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, glancing up at the blue skies above.

“Thank you, Alistair,” she murmured, her tone more genuine. There was something…something so sincere, so innocent in the way he had said it. Something different from the false overtures of the past, of noble sons come to meet the Blue Flame and tie their family names to Highever if they could. There was just something so…normal about it…light and gentle. A soft breeze or warm spiced wine or swimming on a warm day in cool waters. She licked her lips.

“I’m glad you like it,” he finally said, a true smile on his lips, all joking gone now, replaced with genuine kindness. “I was just thinking...here I am doing all this complaining, and you haven’t exactly been having a good time of it yourself.” Her smile faded slightly, and she felt a wash of sadness, but it was not the weary sort of sadness, nor the paralysis of true loss. It was just acceptance of everything. His gift was not the rose, not truly. It was permission. Permission to feel what she felt. And that was worth so much more. “You’ve had none of the good experience of being a Grey Warden since your Joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. It’s all been death and fighting and tragedy.” His smile was gone too, but his words were still gentle, still kind. He met her eyes then, the warm amber like molten gold. “I just thought maybe I could say something, tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this darkness.”

Frankly she had never heard anything like it. It was from the heart, not meant to woo her, just meant to gently nudge her from slumber. She felt the warmth of it all, and kept it lighthearted, but something was still stirring inside her. Such words, from such a person? She had always thought his open expression and his gentle nature a weakness given all they must do. But here…here was where she realized what a strength it truly could be. He had won her over with his heart alone, through kindness and gentleness when the world had none. He was like a beacon in the dark.

She fell back to humor, unable to comprehend what her mind was telling her, unable to dive too deeply into this.

_A Cousland always does their duty first._

_Be quiet._

“So,” she grinned, shaking her head. “Are we married now?” He gave another laugh.

“Ha! You won’t land me that easily, woman!” he teased. “I know I’m quite the prize after all, no need to start crying on me or anything.” She grinned, and he nodded, then he reached out to her, filling the space between them, his hand turned upward towards her.

 _Come on then,_ it seemed to say, and she carefully took it. Solidarity. The two of them against everything.

Ostagar was right there. But it felt so far away.

Alistair was still blushing a little, once again looking elsewhere, unable to face her head on.

“I guess it was, uh, just a stupid impulse,” he said in excuse, covering for himself now the moment was over. “I don’t know, was it the wrong one?” It was a real, nervous, open question, and Eideann decided it deserved a real, nervous, open answer.

“No, it wasn’t,” she said quietly. “Thank you.” Her smile was gone, and she could smell the faint scent of the rose in her hand.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said hurriedly. He was trying to hide the awkwardness in his voice now. Humor again, she realized just in time. “Now if we could move right on past this awkward, embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, I’d appreciate it.” She grinned, calling his bluff.

“Sounds good. Off with the armor then.” He laughed, a wash of relief going over them both then, a way out of the too-sincere mess they had suddenly ended up in. Words had needed to be spoken, but the time was wrong, the place was wrong. There was so much…

_So much what? You might die. If not now, when?_

“Damn, she saw right through me,” Alistair said in a cheerful grumble, and he released her hand. She blinked, then realized where they were and carefully tucked the rose away inside her bag, careful not to crush it. Even with Wynne’s spells keeping it preserved, it was not immune to brute force.

“You’re cute when you’re bashful,” Eideann said with a grin, teasing him back. Alistair just shook his head, cheeks still a bit red, but in full composure of his joking nature again.

“Right…I’ll just be over here until the blushing stops. Just to be safe. You know how it is.” Eideann gave a soft laugh, then turned away.

Her smile faded as she considered the temple ruins, the rest of the ancient Tevinter city still to be cleared. And she wanted to find this armor now, to make sure that Cailin was put to rest properly and that the whole world would know how he was killed. She could see the use in it, but part of it was also for sentimental reasons. She had sworn her services to his house, after all, and she meant to keep that word even in death, to reunite and protect his lands.

Warden. Cousland. There still was no room for Eideann.

Wynne was waiting with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised, but she said nothing as they rejoined her, instead just shaking her head. She looked a little pale, even wrapped in a thick Warden cloak from Soldier’s Peak as she was.

“Ready?” She asked, a little impatiently, and Eideann did her best not to look sheepish.

“The path ahead is going to be difficult,” she said simply. “The darkspawn seem to be concentrated across the valley in the eastern city.” A lame excuse, but true as well, and Wynne said nothing, only nodded.

The tents were in ruins, fabric burnt away and the poles scorched and broken. The darkspawn were hiding among them, but there was a little touch of lightness in her heart now, and Alistair had some sort of fresh determination as well. The second darkspawn group was led by a fierce Hurlock alpha with a horned helmet carrying Cailin’s shield, which made him an immediate target. Eideann felt the Warden blades catch the shield as Alistair beheaded the fiend. He took up Cailin’s shield himself, strapping it to his pack where his usually was. He looked angry now, like he had decided the affront would not stand any longer. Good. She needed that fire now if they were to cut their way through.

King Cailin’s dead retainer had hidden the key to the royal arms chest in a pile of rubble at the base of a statue near where the mages had camped. Wynne picked through the tents and snow, coming up with a few vials of lyrium which she took for herself, and a tattered Circle cloak, which she folded carefully away. She looked a moment like she wanted to say something, but she chose not to, instead fixing a hard look on Eideann, a promise.

King Cailin’s key was on a length of twine, so Eideann looped it over her neck and tucked it inside her tunic to lay beside the Warden pendant filled with darkspawn blood.

At the far end of the campsite, the remains of Duncan’s bonfire stood, a testament to his strength. There are significantly more darkspawn totems around it, like the beasts had done their best to despoil it. But it held power still, and they could not corrupt that. Eideann exchanged a look with Alistair and he just met her gaze in return, a fierce determination in those amber eyes. The darkspawn were frightened of this place, this fire lit by tainted blood to ward them away. The taint of Archdemons flowed in their blood, not just that of the darkspawn. Warden beacons were points of power.

Eideann wondered musingly if the beacon atop the Tower of Ishal had garnered as many totems.

She exchanged a look with Wynne, who read her intentions without words. The fire spluttered to life, and then the bonfire lit, erupting into flames that licked high into the sky. There the proof was placed. Wardens would never die.

There were a few more darkspawn to kill before they at last reached Cailin’s tent. The tent itself had been ruined, but a small table and a wooden stool still stood, and a collapsed cot was half-buried in the snow. The king’s chest stood firm as ever, claw marks scoring the surface. The lock was still intact, however, and Eideann drew forth the key to spring it.

The chest was mostly empty, and Eideann presumed it had held Cailin’s armor when he was not wearing it. There were only a few papers scattered in the bottom, and a sword, inscribed with red runes and inlaid with gold.

King Maric’s sword.

“He was going to use it to fight the Archdemon,” Alistair said suddenly, and there was an odd ring to his voice, like he had more to add but chose not to. Eideann lifted it carefully and considered it a moment, the red leather grip oddly warm to the touch. Then she passed it to Alistair to hold.

“We will use it to fight Loghain,” she said simply. There was some justice in that.

The more important things, however, were the papers. Eideann skimmed through them all quickly, trying to work out which were important and worth saving and which could be left in the chest. She finally settled on three, only because the conversation concerned her a little.

The first was correspondence from the young Empress Celene of Orlais, who had promised troops in aid against the Blight. Since they had never arrived, Eideann presumed Loghain had indeed closed the border as the apostate Sidonie Hawke had said in Lothering prior to it burning. That meant the Grey Wardens of Orlais could not help, or rather they were prevented from helping. At least they knew, though, and were prepared.

The second was more interesting, a letter from Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, begging Cailin not to take the front line. Eideann had said as much herself, and that was not the important part. What intrigued her was Eamon’s warnings about Cailin’s lack of an heir and his argument that the Queen, almost thirty, was unlikely to give him children. It was Eamon, then, who had first urged Cailin to put Anora aside. The letter was written with cursory reference to a previous discussion, and it appeared Cailin and Eamon had originally had somewhat of a falling out over the issue.

The third was all the proof she needs that Loghain would betray Cailin at Ostagar. It was a far more informal letter from Empress Celene, postponing her visit and promising to discuss a more permanent alliance with Orlais soon.

Eideann sank into a seat atop the chest, considering. She knew that Cailin had argued with Loghain over Anora, and that it had been very likely that Cailin had reached out to Celene to forge a marital alliance, but here was the proof of it. And here too was the reason Cailin had rushed blindly to defeat the darkspawn, and why Loghain would care less for their defeat.

She looked to Alistair and Wynne, then held out the letters. They skimmed through them, heads together. Then Alistair’s eyes narrowed.

“So it’s true,” he said after perusing them. “He had convinced the forces of Orlais to ally against the darkspawn.”

“Empress Celene was merely awaiting a response,” Wynne added, leafing through the others.

“A response that never came,” Alistair added grimly. “And now never will, thanks to Loghain’s treachery.” Treachery indeed.

“Never is a long time, Alistair,” Wynne said, passing the letters back. Eideann took them and carefully folded them away, tucked safely inside a pocket sewn within her tunic. “Give it time, and let cooler heads prevail. There will be peace between us yet.” Alistair sighed.

“Well, I hope you live to see it, Wynne,” he replied, doubt lacing his voice. Wynne raised an eyebrow.

“And I hope the darkspawn don’t.”

But both of them were missing the real meaning of those letters. Eideann grimaced, knowing full well she had the meaning there in her pocket over her heart. Any noble could read those letters and see what Cailin had done.

Orlais had agreed to aid them because Cailin had agreed to marry Empress Celene and reunite Ferelden and Orlais. But to do that, he had needed to give up Anora, Loghain’s daughter, and the key to the Teryn’s power. Cailin had been willing to do so since he had no heir. He had fought on the front lines himself to prove himself worthy of glory, to put a quick end to the darkspawn so he could marry Celene and be done with it.

But Loghain knew. Loghain had been a common man under Maric, and common men had done very badly in the Orlesian occupation. His tactical genius was what had drawn Maric to him, and together they had liberated Ferelden. It was that liberation that validated his title. Were that liberation ever undone, or if Ferelden and Orlais ever united, his legitimacy would be gone, his power stripped. The man who was a Hero against Orlais would fall if Orlais became a friend.

Add to that the threat to put aside Anora in favor of Celene…Cailin had sundered ties with his general, and by allying himself to the Orlesian Empire, he had moved to destroy the man entirely.

The only way Loghain could keep power then, to save dace, was to ensure the king was dead, and then he could claim the regency over his own daughter. This he had done despite the fact that she had proven herself an efficient ruler during Cailin’s time. He now maneuvered to stand ready against Orlais, should Celene decide to retaliate.

The darkspawn were nothing to him. He hardly saw them as a threat at all.

Eideann rose, her face grim, but said nothing to the others. Some political secrets needed to stew, to be properly brought to bear at the right time, in the right place, and she was still missing pieces. She would need to leverage this in order to get the army she needed to fight the Blight. This would strike a decisive blow in the Civil War, but not yet. There was more to it, more behind it all.

Instead, she left the chest behind and moved, warily, to the bridge.

It was there they found Cailin, stripped naked and crucified atop a blasphemous structure, bloodied and beginning to rot even despite the snow preserving the bodies. Eideann descended the steps onto the bridge after taking a moment to consider the far side. There was no way to know really where the darkspawn were exactly, but she could not sense any there yet, and she decided to risk it.

She crossed to him, stopping to stand before his body and look upon his face. His hair was loose, fallen from its braid about his face. Blood and wounds covered him, and his spine was twisted awkwardly, like his back was broken.

He had been kind to her, had recognized at the end his fate and gone anyway, brave and true, to do his duty.

 _This is where duty gets you._ She pushed that thought away too. Duty had kept her alive.

King Cailin had promised her justice, and she silently returned that promise. She promised it in triplicate: as a Warden, justice for what the darkspawn had done to him; as a Teyrna, justice for Loghain’s betrayal; as Eideann Cousland, justice because it was the right thing to do.

She realized in that moment he had chosen Celene out of necessity for the Blight. She had an army of Wardens he would need, and the strength of an Empire. But he had had many other options, and her head hurt to think on them.

“Forgive us, my king,” she heard Alistair say grimly. “Once we’ve flushed the darkspawn from their holes and bought ourselves some time, we’ll be back to see you to the Maker.” Eideann silently agreed.

A sound caught her attention and she looked up to see a genlock emissary at the far end of the bridge. It was weaving some sort of wicked blood magic spell over the rotting corpses of fallen soldiers. Alistair gave a curse, then, drawing his sword again. Maric’s blade was now strapped to his pack with Cailin’s shield. The emissary had fled before he could use any of his Templar skills, however, and they were left to cut down the walking dead instead.

They were retracing their steps now, Eideann realized, across the bridge.

One of the hurlocks up ahead was wearing Cailin’s gauntlets, which did not last long. Eideann tucked them away safely as well, before she at last gave a great sigh, shaking her head.

There was a poetic justice to it, really, clearing the darkspawn as they had done the night of the battle. The climbed the terraces as they had done before to finish what they had started.

There was really only one place they could go.

“The Tower of Ishal,” Alistair said definitively. Eideann just pursed her lips.

The darkspawn were more common on the eastern side, presumably because of the tunnels where they had emerged on that night. They found a few scrabbling over Cailin’s breastplate and rescued it, tying it to Eideann’s pack when it was secure and the darkspawn were dead. And then Alistair went up the steps, holding the great door of the tower open for Wynne and Eideann both, his look dark and stormy.

The genlock necromancer was there, but it did not stay. Instead, it performed more evil magic, calling back the darkspawn from the dead. They were fighting the same ones. Eideann remembered the cut across one hurlock’s face. Alistair ripped through the first emissary she had seen him fight, his Smite echoing across the room and shutting out all magic, even Wynne’s, for a moment. He was angry now, Eideann new, and so was she, but it was a cold fire, a determination to make the darkspawn pay.

So again they cleared the tower, finding that darkspawn died easier the second time around, and made good time through the rooms. But still the bodies of fallen soldiers littered the floors, not preserved here as they were inside. The sickly sweet scent of rotting bodies was almost unbearable, and they were all gagging on the festering smell before long.

They did not climb the steps, pausing instead at the room to bear witness to Loghain’s treachery again. The floor tiles were still neatly stacked, the tunnel a dark maw opening up to chambers beneath. The only thing it took to convince Eideann that the tunnel was deliberate was finding where the short tunnel led.

Its exit was not natural but dug out and propped up with stones and boulders to prevent collapse. It led straight onto the battlefield where the darkspawn had attack, hidden behind one of the tall bone-white spires out of sight of the army but easily there for the darkspawn to see, to find, to use.

Loghain had come up with the plan. Loghain had been in charge of that tower. And Loghain had protested that Alistair and Eideann had been assigned to light the beacon, certain his own men would suffice.

Eideann felt a wash of hatred at the proof before her. He was not guilty of simply quitting the field and leaving his king to die. He had plotted Cailin’s murder. He had had the motive and the means.

The only hiccup in his perfect plan of treason had been Eideann and Alistair. He had tried to have them assassinated by the Crows because they knew too much, they were a threat to him. Well, now they certainly were.

On the battlefield, they felt he oppression of death again. Crows and carrion birds picked at what remained of the bodies there, but there was no sign of Duncan or the other Grey Wardens. Eideann did not like that one bit. Surely they would be somewhere? The darkspawn had taken some of the living, Morrigan had said, but the dead?

In the middle of the field, a dead ogre lay, covered in ice and snow. She imagined for a moment what it must have been like, fighting down there below the bridge with fire and arrows and stone raining down on their heads and praying for reinforcements that never came.

Movement caught her eye, and she snapped to attention. It was the genlock emissary, watching them from the platform where Cailin had directed his fight. Eideann had no time to react. Blood magic surged, and the felled ogre lurched.

The snow and ice scattered, and it rose, a giant hulking undead monster. Blades still stuck out from its flesh. It gave a loud roar, disturbing all the birds that scattered at the sound. And then it caught sight of them, standing near the spire, and roared at them. All about him, the frozen corpses of felled warriors rose to do battle again.

Eideann went straight for the ogre, and it went straight for her. Alistair was right there beside her, guarding her back as the skeletal warriors launched themselves into the fray. Eideann leaped, knocking the ogre off balance even as it swung to grab her, and her silverite blades found a home in its chest, then its eye until it lay still under her. She moved then, wary, leaping clear and doing a little roll to catch her feet. And then she joined Alistair in battling the frozen warriors.

The fell in waves before their Warden blades. Alistair ripped through two at once, his sword shearing them apart. Eideann did not see what he did next, because he was already off, stalking the necromancer into the depths of the battlefield amidst the bodies. It was over too quickly. He did something else, some new Templar skill Eideann had not seen, something he later called Smothering, and the genlock was defenseless. Its head rolled, and with it Cailin’s helm. Alistair liberated it from the remains of the genlock’s head and looked it over a moment, then sighed, tucking it under his arm.

That was when Eideann recognized the blades in the ogre’s chest. She crossed deliberately to the slain beast, leaping back atop its chest and gripping the handle of the sword first. It was stiff, frozen solid into dead flesh, but eventually she worked it free, and it slid out with a final great heave, almost forcing her off balance in the process. But she was right.

She passed the sword to Alistair, who took it with wide eyes in his free hand. And then she moved to yank the dagger free from the ogre’s chest. That she kept for herself, sliding into her belt at the small of her back. Alistair was staring at the blade, disbelieving, and then he looked up for confirmation. Eideann nodded.

“Duncan’s,” she said. Alistair carefully sheathed it beside the Warden blade at his side. Then he drew a deep breath before looking up and shifting the helmet in his arms.

“The last of them,” he said, referring to the helmet. Wynne sighed.

“It’s been a long day,” she said quietly, then peered at Alistair. “By the lines around your eyes, I daresay you look as old as I.” She gave a soft chuckle. Alistair smiled slightly, giving her that gentle look he was so good at.

“And if I may say so, milady,” he said, all sorts of charming laced into that tone, “you appear to be getting younger by the day.” Eideann grinned and Wynne shook her head.

“By careful who you flirt with, young man,” she warned. “When you wake up beside me tomorrow morning, I’ll be back to reminding you of your grandmother.” Eideann gave a soft laugh. Alistair just blinked taken aback.

“Beside you?” he said warily, adjusting his pack. Eideann eyed up the bridge, then motioned them towards the platform where Cailin had stood. Duncan and the other Grey Wardens had gotten down there somehow, and if she remembered correctly it was by going through the tower near the platform.

“You heard what I said,” Wynne replied, laughter in her voice as she took the steps up. “It would not be the first time I awoke to a younger man in my bed.”

“Are _all_ women this evil and conniving when they grow old?”

“We don’t have to be old to be evil and conniving,” Eideann said with a laugh.

“Just me,” Wynne chuckled.

Eideann reached for the door, then jumped as it swung open and a pair of shrieks flew at her, sharp claws ripping. Something exploded in the doorway, throwing her back, knocking the breath from her.

Wynne was glowing. That was the first thing she noticed as she tried to push her way up. Alistair had been knocked back too but was rising in a hurry, sword in hand, unable to properly defend with his shield while holding Cailin’s helmet. Eideann reached for Duncan’s dagger, thinking at least she could throw it, but then a bright light erupted from Wynne, and the shrieks screamed. They scattered back, and Eideann felt a warm rush go through her, her weariness forced back. She drew her swords and cut the shrieks down, and when she was certain all the creatures were dead, she turned.

Alistair was on his knees over Wynne who had a hand to her head and was struggling to rise. He helped her, concern on his face, and she squeezed her eyes shut a moment. Eideann sheathed one blade but kept the other in hand, ready just in case. She would not be caught off guard again. Damn darkspawn.

Wynne was shaking her head slightly, as if she were dizzy, and Eideann crossed to put a hand on her arm.

“I…I fell,” Wynne said slowly, as if dazed.

“Are you alright?” Eideann asked, looking her over and then exchanging glances with Alistair. Angus was peering at them with big dog eyes in concern.

“For a moment there I thought I was…” Wynne blinked, then swallowed. “I thought it was all over.” Eideann felt a stab of fear and shook her head violently.

“You need to rest, that’s all,” she said fiercely. There was more force in her voice than she had intended. Wynne looked to her with tired eyes, squinting a little, and then sighed.

“I will explain everything when we camp,” she said quietly. “Now is not the time.”

Eideann almost want to insist on camping then and there, but it was not safe, and their business was not yet done, so they took the tower steps slowly, giving Wynne time to rest every few steps. When they reached the old camp, Eideann instructed Wynne to stay by Duncan’s fire, and then she and Alistair worked to hack down large branches and build a pyre in the square on the snow.

They worked quickly, but it was still only a small pyre. There wasn’t enough wood, and Duncan’s bonfire was something else. King Cailin deserved his own pyre.

They carefully crossed the bridge, leaving Angus to guard Wynne, to bring Cailin’s body together to the pyre they had built. They lay him atop it, arranging him in some sort of repose, and then stepped back to consider their work.

“He was a good man,” Alistair said softly, “who hoped too much and died too young. He deserves what little honor we can afford to grant him.” Angus gave a low howl, and Eideann promised in silence again to have Loghain’s head for his treason.

Alistair gave the rites, the closest thing to a priest they had as a Templar, and then Eideann lit the fire from a torch carrying the flames from Duncan’s bonfire. They stood, watching, as the flames consumed the King, and Eideann thought again of the promises that he had made as well as her own.

 _I will do my duty by you,_ she thought grimly, watching the fire lick at his bare limbs in the cold snow. _I will see justice done._

And she meant it. Every word. Warden and Teyrna. There was still no room for Eideann.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MostHopelessofRomantics for reading all my chapters almost right when they are posted. Your first comment back on Book 1 gave me the drive to keep writing this series, so I hope I don't disappoint! :) ~HigheverRains


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann and Alistair learn Wynne's secret; Morrigan tells Eideann what she has learned from Flemeth's grimoire; Zevran tries to negotiate the terms of his oath; Eideann contemplates their next steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none
> 
> Comments always welcome!
> 
> NOTE (May 11th, 2015 - due to some uncontrollable circumstances, Chapter 3 will be delayed for about a week. I am still writing, but sometimes other things must take priority. Sorry for all those waiting. _Dances in Darkness_ will continue soon! Thank you for your patience! ~HigheverRains)

Sten was poking at the logs of the campfire when they rejoined their group, riding their horses into the small clearing. They had camped at the old watchtower where they had first met Morrigan. Alistair and Eideann had decided on the place almost without discussion. It still held some defensive advantage against darkspawn, and it was far enough from Ostagar to be out of trouble, but close enough that they could travel there in daylight.

Alistair took the reins of their horses as Eideann slipped down and then helped Wynne dismount. She was still worried about the old mage, and Wynne’s promise of an explanation was disconcerting. What sort of explanation did she think she needed to give? Surely she had just overexerted herself? Eideann did not like to think of it.

She get Wynne settled in blankets with Leliana coming off watch and setting aside her bow to take over. The bard brought Wynne a cup of bubbling soup from the pot near the fire, and sat down beside her on a chunk of rubble, concern clear on her face. Eideann let that happen, going instead to pull all the pieces of Cailin’s armor from her horse. They were covered in filth and grime. She carried them across the camp to Zevran, dumping it all unceremoniously at his feet.

He looked up at her, a challenging look in his brown eyes, and she gave him a false smile.

“What is this?” he asked, pawing at the breastplate, distaste obvious. Eideann tossed a greasy rag and a tub of polish at him, which he deftly caught, and his brows knitted as he realized what they were.

“You did say you’d shine armor if I asked.” He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head but taking up the rag.

“Ah, _bella_ , it seems I shall have to be careful what I say around you,” he grinned, then scowled at the armor. “What have you done with it? It looks like it has been dragged through a ditch backwards? Whose was it?”

“The King’s. And you don’t want to know what has been done with it.” She turned away then before he could say anything else, and left him to it. He just smirked and shook his head again, and then opened the tin of polish.

Alistair intercepted her as she turned back towards Wynne, the horses tied and watered with the others further in the ruins. Atop the small ledge, where she had first stood months ago, Morrigan was watching them with hooded eyes by her own campfire, her tent pitched against the cold and full of her alchemical supplies. Eideann ignored her gaze, going instead to Wynne and crouching before her.

Wynne looked at her with sad little eyes, until at last Leliana rose to give them space, going to sit before the fire with a sigh. Alistair took her seat, looking equally concerned. Wynne shifted within the blankets bundled about her shoulders.

“Tell me,” she said after a moment, “have you encountered many abominations aside from the ones in the Circle Tower?” Eideann had half a mind to say yes, thinking of Arl Howe, of Sophia Dryden, of the mage Avernus. But that was not what Wynne meant, so she settled back and crossed her legs beneath her.

“What brought this on?”

“You are younger than I,” Wynne replied softly. “Your nerves yet have some steel in them. Did you feel any fear facing the abominations?” Eideann forced herself to look at Alistair a moment. Then she licked her lips.

“Some,” she admitted, “but I knew I could not falter.” There had been more at stake than just her own life. Just like now, here in the Wilds again, or back at Ostagar during the battle. Her life was not her own. Duty saw to that. How could she face the darkspawn in battle but fear to fight abominations when darkspawn were an abomination against the world themselves? One look at the damage done to the Wilds was enough to know that.

“The first time I saw an abomination,” Wynne told them both, “my blood turned to ice. It was the knowledge I could easily become one of them that frightened me the most.”

“But it is that knowledge that drives you to be cautious,” Alistair said, sounding all Templary again. Wynne’s forehead creased.

“All it takes is one slip, and everything you are is gone, replaced by madness.” Her eyes were sharp as they settled on Eideann. “And there is no going back, or at least that’s what they say.”

“You have doubts?” Eideann asked. What did this have to do with her fall at Ostagar?

“Of late,” Wynne said, slowly as if tasting the words for the first time, “I have begun to wonder if there is anyway an abomination could be cured. Or if a mage could be so possessed and still retain their sanity. Their humanity.” She had witnessed the destruction and death at Ostagar, and then seen it again in her home at the Circle. Perhaps she was trying to process everything yet.

“If one retains one’s humanity,” Eideann said after a moment, focusing on some of the rubble to think of the words she wanted to say, “one is not an abomination.” Wynne looked up, considering, as if it had not really crossed her mind.

“Yes,” she said suddenly. “It is madness and cruelty that defines and abomination. If those are lacking then they are _not_ an abomination.” It seemed a weight had lifted from her a little, and she sat up a bit straighter. “I never saw that. Thank you for showing me another way of looking at it.” Eideann nodded. It had been nothing, just what she thought, from an outside point of view. An abomination was frightening because it was not human, and there were enough humans capable of cruelty and horrible things that it felt a loose distinction.

Eideann knew little enough about spirits, about the Fade and magic and all of that. She was no mage, and had never been around many mages. Those she had known, Alduous for example, had been wise and kindly, if strict in their determination to pass on knowledge. She was certainly no authority on the matter herself, but it seemed to her if spirits were simply the denizens of dreams, there was a great deal the world did not know about them. Dismissing them all outright as demons seemed far too simplistic, and she had never been devout enough to follow the Chantry unquestioningly. It had been enough to drive Mother Mallol, the Highever cleric, to distraction.

“I think,” Wynne said suddenly, “I owe you an explanation for what happened earlier.” Eideann settled forward to listen, and Alistair shifted, crossing his arms.

“We were worried,” he said quietly. The mage nodded a thank you, her eyes softening slightly. Then she sighed.

“You should know that something happened at the Tower before you came along.” She huddled further into the blankets. “Remember my apprentice, Petra? She encountered a demon in the Tower. It would have killed her had I not intervened.” Eideann felt a wary feeling settle over her and swallowed. “I saved her life that day,” Wynne said simply, “but I did not survive that encounter with the demon.” For a moment neither Alistair nor Eideann spoke, and then suddenly Eideann shook her head.

“But you’re standing right here,” she said softly. The only undead they had met were the rotting corpses raised by magic, bones clacking and driven by spells not their own minds. Wynne was warm and soft and frail and very much alive.

But she shook her head, grimacing.

“I engaged and very powerful demon to rescue Petra,” she said softly. “It sapped me of all my energy and will and left me drained. It took everything I had to defeat it. And when I was done, I no longer had the strength to keep my heart beating.” She huddled over, gazing at her wrinkled hands. “I remember my life ebbing away. Everything receded from me…sound…light. I remember being enveloped in complete, impenetrable darkness.” She licked her lips. “And then I…sensed…a presence, enfolding me and cradling me, whispering quietly to me. The sensation is impossible to describe.” She looked up between the two Grey Wardens then, as if unsure what they would do. “I was being held back, firmly but gently, as a mother would a child eager to slip from her grasp. I felt life and warmth flowing through my veins again. I began to be aware of small sounds and the discomfort of my hip pressing into the cold stone of the Tower floor.” Eideann glanced to Alistair who was listening intently, but there was none of the Templar in him now, just a concerned man. He glanced to her in return, then drew a breath.

“So you were never completely dead?” he said softly. Wynne shrugged into the blanket.

“The Fade contains spirits both benevolent and malicious, though benevolent spirits seldom make themselves known because they want nothing from mortals, unlike demons. It was one of these spirits that saved me. Without it, I would be dead.” She sounded very certain of that, like she had never been more certain in her life. Eideann rose from her seat and Wynne’s eyes followed her. She pursed her lips, pacing a little while she considered all this. Wynne finally spoke, and Eideann noticed Alistair was gently holding the old woman’s hand.

“I am supposed to be dead,” the old mage said simply. “It is the spirit that keeps me in this world. Perhaps the spirit did not expect this, but it is weakening, gradually.” She fixed Eideann with a piercing look, old eyes bright and determined. “I am…living on borrowed time.” Eideann swallowed, then paused her pacing, turning to Wynne with a set jaw.

“Then we will make the most of that time,” she said simply. And she left Alistair to speak with Wynne more then as she wandered off to fetch some food.

“You were picking flowers,” Leliana was laughing as Eideann approached. Sten looked grumpy. Eideann bent to ladle herself some of Leliana’s soup.

“…They were medicinal.”

“You’re a big softie,” the bard smirked. She was working on something now, her head bent low over her lap.

“What is that?” Eideann asked, nodding to whatever Leliana was holding. Red fabric. Was she sewing? The bard just gave her a sly little look.

“Something for later,” was all she would say, and Eideann scowled, then left the pair alone at the fire and took her soup up the steps to the small landing where Morrigan was sitting alone.

The witch did not look up at her approach, instead turning over another page in her mother’s book which lay in her lap. If she ate at all, Eideann could not tell, but she was slowly stirring some simmering pot of…something over her fire. The fire seemed less warm here, darker and deeper. She had to draw closer to ward off the chill. She leaned against the wall beside it, gathering her cloak about her, and drinking from the bowl of soup.

“It must be strange,” she finally said, considering the witch. Morrigan quirked a brow but did not look up.

“Oh?”

“Being back here. You grew up here.” Morrigan’s eyes narrowed and she sniffed.

“Strange? How could it possibly be strange to return to somewhere one has known all one’s life?” Eideann shook her head.

“I meant seeing it as it is now, all twisted. It’s horrible. And quiet.” Morrigan looked up briefly, yellow eyes flashing.

“What is your point?”

“What was it like growing up here?” Eideann asked, nodding to the landscape. It was twisted and Blighted, but still the same landscape.

“I do not probe _you_ for pointless information, do I?” Morrigan said shortly. Eideann shrugged.

“You could if you wanted to,” she said quietly. She might even answer truthfully. Morrigan gave a snort of a laugh.

“Oh, what luck,” the witch sighed. “Where else would you picture me?” She stirred the pot of whatever she was making and shifted her weight a little. “For many years it was simply Flemeth and I. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than Flemeth’s tales of the world of man. In time, I grew curious. I left the Wilds to explore what lay beyond. Never for long. Brief forays into a civilized wilderness.” Eideann listened. She liked when Morrigan spoke, like she were weaving the web of story. She had the same sort of storyteller’s sing song voice as Nan had had, and it was easy to get captured in it. Not to mention, the witch was just so different, in so many ways.

“And you remained unnoticed?” she asked softly. She tried to picture a younger Morrigan, with long limbs and sharp eyes, traipsing into Lothering to see the sights. It made her smile a little to think on it, until she remembered Lothering was gone.

“For the most part,” Morrigan replied, a little more amiably now. She had decided these questions were safe. “Flemeth taught me well. For all that I had been taught, however, the truth of the civilized lands proved to be…overwhelming.”

“A fair evaluation,” Eideann agreed. “It was overwhelming trying to live in it.” So many things to keep track of all the time. Morrigan gave a sage nod.

“I was unfamiliar with so much,” she explained. “So confident and bold was I, yet there was so much that Flemeth could never have prepared me for.” Eideann gazed to the witch, and their eyes met, yellow cat’s-eyes on fierce Cousland blue. Then she smiled a little.

“Very daring. That sounds like you,” she said. Morrigan quirked an eyebrow again, then looked away, but a small smile played at the corner of her lips now as well.

“Equal parts daring and foolhardy, perhaps,” she suggested, brushing the compliment aside and accepting it all in one breath. “Only once was I accused of being a Witch of the Wilds,” she reached to pull a few vials from her satchel and held them one by one to ladle her bubbling potion inside. “By a Chasind who happened to be travelling with a merchant caravan.” She stoppered the first vial with a cork and continued. “He pointed and gasped and began shouting in his strange language, and most assumed he was casting some curse upon me. I acted the terrified girl, and naturally he was arrested.” She took up another vial and repeated the process.

Eideann gave a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak, and two: that she finds him attractive,” Morrigan said flatly. She poured the last of her concoction into the last vial and then dumped the pot upside down on the snow to drain. The vials she tucked away, then her yellow eyes slipped up to Eideann’s blue again and she shook her head. “I played the weakling and batted my eyelashes at the Captain of the Guard. Child’s play.” She pursed her dark lips. “The point being that I was able to move through human lands fairly easily. Whatever humans think a Witch of the Wilds looks like, ‘tis not I.”

“Is Flemeth,” Eideann asked suddenly, sinking into a seat closer to the fire, her back against the crumbling ruin wall, “what she seems to be?” Morrigan gave a chuckle.

“That depends, does it not?” The firelight was catching her eyes in odd ways, making them shine with an ethereal glimmer. “What does she seem to be?” Eideann stared into the flames of the flickering fire a moment, then hunched down into her fur-lined cloak, shaking her head.

“Human?” she suggested. What was Flemeth? She knew the legends of course, of Conobar of Highever’s wife running away with the bard Osen and allying herself with demons, leading armies to conquer the Chasind and meeting the hero Cormac in battle. It was difficult to imagine such a creature could live so long. But after Avernus and Sophia Dryden, she was not so sure what to believe anymore.

Flemeth had laughed like other women, had saved their lives, though Eideann suspected she had her own motivations for doing so. It had not been an act of mere generosity. She had never explained how she had gotten them from the Tower of Ishal that night, when all hope was lost and the darkspawn were swarming the ruins. She had never told them how she had healed them. She had simply set them on their path, letting them walk it with her daughter Morrigan.

Morrigan just sighed.

“Oh she certainly _was_ human. Once.” Her eyes narrowed, and she at last turned, reaching for the book by her side. She looked like she were trying very hard to decide if she should say something. She held the book carefully in her lap, considering its black leather cover, and then she ran her hand over the tree embossed on the front and frowned. “I did not think…I had not planned…” She stopped, then began again, choosing a different angle. Eideann watched with narrowed eyes. “I have been studying Mother’s grimoire. ‘Tis not what I expected. I had hoped for a collection of her spells, but this is not it.”

“Yet you look disturbed,” Eideann said grimly.

“Disturbed? Yes, perhaps that _is_ the right word,” Morrigan said darkly. She looked down at the cover again. “Here, in _great_ details, Flemeth describes the means by which she has survived for centuries.” Eideann sat up a little, leaning forward.

“A spell of immortality?” she asked, hoping, knowing damn well it could not be the answer, to have Morrigan looking so concerned. The witch shook her head.

“If only ‘twere so. Flemeth has raised many daughters, yet I have never seen a one. And now I know.” She fixed Eideann with a look. “They are _all_ Flemeth. When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises and daughter. And when the time is right, she takes her daughter’s body for her own.” Eideann felt a creeping sensation roll down her spine.

“So why would she risk sending you with me?” she asked quietly, crossing her arms.

“Perhaps ‘tis as she said and the darkspawn threaten her. Or perhaps she thinks this journey will make me more powerful. According to this tome, if the…host…is already powerful and trained in magic, it takes far less time for Flemeth to…settle in.” She looked a little sick, setting the book aside with a distasteful look. Eideann grimaced as well. This was a liability indeed. Between Zevran and Leliana being on the run, Morrigan at risk of possession by her own Mother, and Wynne technically being dead, she was not sure she liked how many attacks were aimed at their party, and that was saying nothing of Loghain or the Blight itself. Maker…

She did not for a moment believe it was the whole truth. Morrigan had only known her a short time, a few months at most since Ostagar. The woman did not trust anyone, and she had hesitated at saying this much. Even so, this was not a spell just anyone could do, Eideann knew. Flemeth was an oddity in many ways. She bit her lip.

“So what do you intend to do?” she asked at last. Morrigan glared into the flames of her campfire.

“There is only one possible response to this: Flemeth needs to die.” The anger lacing her usually curt tone was dangerous. “And I need your help to do it.”

Eideann watched her warily, and for a moment neither spoke as their eyes met through the flames.

“Why?” she asked quietly. Morrigan’s eyes were hard now, like chips of stone.

“If she is slain while I am near,” she said frankly, “I am not certain she will not simply be able to take possession of me right there. So obviously I cannot be the one to do it.” She grimaced. “I know you do not know me, Warden. I know you think I am dangerous. But I have not failed you yet. I have done all you asked, being creatures to spy for you, keeping your secrets, watching while you led us wherever you deemed best. I am not your enemy. Can you say the same of her?” Eideann looked away, staring at her feet and thinking it through. Flemeth was not just a Witch of the Wilds, she was _the_ Witch of the Wilds. She was dangerous, and her intentions were definitely unknown. Even approaching her was dangerous. And yet, Morrigan was right. She had proven herself an ally, regardless of what anyone thought of her, and she was hardly the most disreputable character in the group. She had magic Eideann could not possibly fathom, Flemeth’s knowledge. And she had proven herself useful so far.

Honestly, Eideann did not even know if she _could_ kill Flemeth. Whether she should was another question entirely. The old woman had saved their lives, for whatever reason, but if she did live this way, passing her soul along by stealing bodies to expand her own lifespan, that was something far more sinister. It had already left its mark in Fereldan legend.

“I don’t like it,” she said grimly, finally answering Morrigan’s unspoken question. “I will help you if I can.” That was the best she could promise.

Morrigan raised her chin.

“You shall need to go and face her without me,” she said quietly. “Confront her, and slay her quickly. I doubt she will truly be dead, even then, but it will take her years to find a new host and recover her…power…if that is even possible.” The idea that killing something did not mean it stayed dead was certainly rather prevalent in her life nowadays. Eideann sighed, then rose, drinking the last of her soup.

“We will go before we travel east,” she said grimly.

“The thing I must have,” Morrigan said quietly, here eyes burning points in the darkness, “is her true grimoire. With it, I can defend against her power in the future.” Eideann nodded, and then she turned away.

She had a headache.

She glanced at Zevran, who shot her a grin over the armor he was polishing, and then sighed. She knew she had brought each of them along for a reason, but Maker, such a lot.

She went to check on her horse, not because she had thought that Alistair would not take care of it properly, but because she wanted to check something.

Maric’s blade was strapped to her saddle alongside the Cousland blade. The two were a matching pair, one amber and one sapphire, blades shaped into waves in the Alamarri fashion. The blades both sparkled with inlaid runes that scored the surface in lines of yellow and blue. She considered them, the matching set, and then sighed, bowing her head over them.

“A sexy set of swords,” came the ring of an Antivan accent, and she swung around, Duncan’s knife in her hand at Zevran’s throat before he could blink. He glanced down at it, raising his eyebrows, then gave a low chuckle, pushing it aside gently. “Very good. I shall have to remember you are quick.”

“Back away now or I will kill you,” Eideann said slowly, and he did so, putting some space between them.

“If I had meant to kill you, _Bella_ ,” he said simply, “I would not have spoken.” He had gotten so close without making a sound. She admired it a little, but she also knew it was dangerous.

She was still not sure she could trust him, but he had sworn that oath to her, and he had had ample opportunity to kill her before. So she simply sighed and sheathed the knife back behind her belt at the small of her back.

“Don’t sneak up on me then, or next time I might not stop in time.” He gave a low chuckle, crossing his arms and leaning against the ruin wall.

“I’ve a question, if I may?” he asked her. Eideann sighed, turning away from the horse, her hand reaching to tangle into the mane a little as she watched the Crow with narrowed eyes. He did not look suspicious, so she motioned for him to continue. “Here’s the thing. I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you’re on and this is all very fine and well. My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a point of curiousity.” Eideann stared him down, but he did not flinch. It was a serious query then, an actual curiosity, not a distraction, not trying to escape his oath to her. She crossed her arms and her horse bristled beside her.

“Does your oath expire then?” she asked him quietly. He looked uncomfortable.

“Not precisely,” he said. “I said I would serve you until you saw fit to release me. One simply assumes that, once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about. Am I wrong?” Potentially, but she was not planning on telling him as much. After all, she had a Civil War to somehow end, yet, and this all felt like a conversation to be had about a moment that may never even come.

“You could go, if you wanted,” she said finally. If she won in settling the Civil War and in ending the Blight, then she probably would not need an assassin to take care of her enemies, that much was true. And if she lost…well if she lost she would be dead and would not care.

He seemed surprised at her words, his voice going soft as he considered what she had said.

“Could I?” he asked. “And what if I didn’t wish to leave?”

There was a moment between them when neither spoke. Leliana was laughing softly near the fire. Morrigan had retired into her tent. Alistair and Wynne had gone to join Leliana and Sten at the campfire and were eating the last of the soup. Angus had flopped down across Sten’s feet, which would have made her laugh if the big Qunari had not apparently decided he was honored by the attention. She had caught them not two days ago growling at each other like a test of wills, which Angus had apparently won and thus proven himself worthy to the Qunari. Odd fellow.

Eideann considered all of them, then let her eyes settle on the elven assassin.

“You know I was, Teyrna of Highever. There is a Civil War at hand, as well as the Blight. Whatever may come, I need all the allies I can get now. When it is done, who knows what may be. If you prove I can trust you, then I will not make you leave. If you decide you wish to stay…” She looked to the horse then, “I could always use a friend.” He smiled slightly, and she shifted her weight to the other foot, drawing away from the horse.

“Oh?” he asked cheekily, his tell-tale grin back. “Not more than friends?”

“Don’t push your luck, Crow,” she said back and he just gave a wild laugh and turned away, leaving her to the horses.

Eideann stood there in the darkness, watching the group gathered about the campfire, laughing to themselves. Then she pulled her bow from the horse’s saddlebags where it was strapped for safekeeping, and she tied her quiver to her waist.

It had always been the same routine, who took watch when. For the moment, she, Zevran, and Leliana were the only ones with any amount of bow experience. That made them particularly valuable as guards where they stood now, and they had agreed to split the time between them all. Alistair would take the watch with Zevran, and Sten often shared with Leliana now, despite her teasing.

Eideann often did the duty alone, though Shale always stood about awake. The golem never slept. Eideann slipped out to the outskirts of the watchtower and grimaced across the Blighted swamps, festering pools and blackened husks of once flourishing reeds and grasses all about them.

She ran through the next steps of her plan in her head, always planning, always thinking. To the East, the Wilds became the Brecilian Forest, where the elves were rumored to live. They travelled with caravans, whole clans moving together through the woods wherever their halla led them. The book from the Circle of Magi had marked a few locations that elves had been known to visit before, but Eideann rather suspected when they found the Dalish they would know about it. The Dalish were not friendly to humans, and she was wary of how they might react to the treaties.

They had brought only the horses, no wagons or pack-mules. They needed to go quickly now, ride fast. They were, for the most part, sharing tents, and everyone was responsible to carry what they alone needed. They were hunting as they went rather than carrying much food, and had made good time on the route south across the Bannorn.

Eideann had made sure to stay off the Imperial Highway. Now that the Circle Tower was theirs, and Loghain knew they were alive, she wanted to keep moving, always a step ahead of his troops. She had seen the battlefields in the Bannorn where Loghain’s men had clashed with the Banns that opposed him, but she could not face that threat yet. She needed to secure this army.

The cynical part of her knew, and hate to think on it, that the Blight was a larger threat. If the Blight was not curtailed in Ferelden, the entirety of Thedas could fall. And if she needed to, as a Grey Warden, she would have to face the Blight, whatever the cost to Ferelden for not acting swiftly. Ferelden could yet fall, but her army must stand.

It was a sobering thought, one she meant to treat as a last resort. All the same she was cautious of putting too much hope on ending the Civil War. It would be a different Eideann who would need to move there, a smarter Eideann, a more nuanced Eideann, with the weight of Highever and the tactical mind of a politician. Out in the wilderness where the Blight had blasted the lands, where people fled the darkspawn and the Archdemon remained an ever-present specter, she was a different sort of woman.

At Soldier’s Peak, Avernus had thought her the new Warden Commander. Alistair deferred to her judgment in that regard, and while it was not formally determined between them, it certainly seemed the case. Warden-Commander or Teyrna. Both were needed, but one was more pressing.

The Blight was upon them. There was no turning away from that. And there would be no second chances.

She sighed, crossing her arms, the bow held loose in one hand. Tomorrow, she would go west towards Flemeth’s hut, remembering the way there from the trail they had followed the first time she and Daveth and Jory and Alistair had gone to collect the treaties. Then it would be east, to the Dalish, to track them through the woods and hopefully catch them before it was too late. She would have to go to the dwarves, who would need time to gather their forces and come to the surface, but it would be enough. And while those groups gathered for war, while the Mages and Templars put their Tower to rights again, while the Dalish got word to the other clans, while the dwarves fortified their underground defenses and climbed the tunnels into the sun, she would settle Ferelden.

And Eamon. Arl Eamon.

She wondered if he was still alive. They had been avoiding the roads, so they had had no news. She did not like to think he was gone, not when she needed him, but she could manipulate his son, and she knew Bann Teagan. Bann Teagan…he had been her brother’s friend. She would handle that when the time came.

For now, she just had to focus on keeping watch, so she settled back against the wall, peering into the darkness of the twisted Wilds, the scent of sweet decay in her nostrils.

It was strange to think how short a time it had been, and yet how long. She did the count in her head, trying to keep track. Two weeks south from Soldier’s Peak, several days rest there, two weeks from the Crestwood and the Circle to reach that place, two and a half weeks on the road between Lothering and Crestwood, including picking up Shale. It had been a week northward to Lothering, and a week since Ostagar before. They had been at Ostagar only days, but it had been a hard two weeks ride from Highever before. Almost three months. How had the time passed her by so quickly?

Three months since Highever. She pushed the pain away.

Shale was standing a little ways down the hill, staring up at the sky with a dubious aura.

“Looking for birds?” Eideann asked, crossing to join the golem. It gave a low growl. Eideann sighed, then shook her head. She remembered the birdseed at the base of the golem back in Honnleath and grimaced. “Sorry, that was cruel.” Shale heaved a great sigh. “What’s with the heavy sighs?” The golem…looked at her? Maybe. It was hard to tell. Shale’s eyes were points of light settled back into the stone head.

“Oh? That? Merely reflecting on the hopeless nature of the task in front of it.” Eideann shrugged, bow in hand, and gazed out into the Wilds. “The most likely outcome,” Shale continued in the grim, rocky tone, “is that it and its companions will become a stain on some rock for the darkspawn to tread upon. I shall be moved to a single tear by the tragedy.” Eideann grinned, unable to stop herself. Sometimes, the golem was more sarcastic than Alistair.

“Glad to know you care at least,” she said, hearing the laughter in her voice as she spoke. It felt good to laugh. For a long time, it had felt she never would again. Something in her was right, was true, and there it was coaxed to the surface by sarcasm and stone.

“Yes, a single tear,” Shale said again. “I have watched a lot of humans in my time. It should be aware that I have decided that it is…not much like any of them.” Eideann tilted her head.

“That could be good or bad,” she said with a small smile. She hoped it was not bad.

“Good, of course” the golem confirmed slyly. “It doesn’t _want_ to have anything in common with all those other filthy, substandard human types, does it?” The golem shifted, rocking a little on the hilltop and then settling. “Surely it must come from some superior lineage, yes? Some breed of flesh creature that has decided to elevate its genetic stock above its natural shortcomings?”

Eideann could not help it. She just laughed. Then she recalled something, something she had meant to bring up weeks ago. She bent to pull her pack from her shoulder and fished through it a moment, mindful of the rose that still lay there, until she came up with the chipped crystal rocks she had found in Honnleath.

“Do you know – ?” she began, but Shale cut her off.

“I see it found some augmentation crystals!” it said in delight. There was no mistaking it. “I did not even know it knew about them. Well done!” Augmentation crystals. Shale reached to take them and they… _melted_ into the stone, emerging again across the golem’s shoulders and arms and back, like crystals just grown as if some sort of magic. Was it lyrium? Eideann did not know, but she frowned, considering. The crystals glittered, shining and glowing in the darkness, certainly looking like the lyrium she had seen in the Fade and in the Circle Tower. Shale just twisted about, as if showing off. “So? What does it think? They don’t make me look any wider, do they? I find I am already too wide as it is.”

“They’re beautiful,” Eideann breathed, because the crystasl were, shining and glowing as they were, and the way they had just…grown…She smiled. The golem gave a low, satisfied hum.

“They _are_ aren’t they?” it said in a low rumble, satisfied with itself. “And look.” It reached out its arm and a burst of lightning jumped from its stone fist to the nearest plant, which withered. “Pretty and dangerous.” Eideann would need to be careful of that. Shale rocked a little again, and then froze suddenly, and the crystals dimmed to a low light, flickering like the golem was angry. “What’s that? Did it hear flapping wings? There may be pigeons nearby, we should be alert!”

It was not a pigeon, but something massive, winging its way across the camp and into the darkness in the east. Eideann stared, trying to make it out, but in the darkness above there was nothing to remark on what it had been. Something too big to have been a bird.

“Vashedan, Ataashi,” Eideann heard Sten growl behind them.

“What?”

“A dragon.” Leliana looked grim. “That was definitely a dragon.” Even Morrigan had poked her head out of her tent.

“What in blazes…?” she hissed. Eideann drew a breath, her eyes narrowed.

“It was not the Archdemon,” she said simply. “If it was…” She looked to Alistair and he nodded. He had not felt it either. Surely of all the darkspawn they could sense, the Archdemon would be obvious.

The camp was much more on edge after that. There was no more laughter, no more joking about. Leliana had come to stand guard with her, and Sten was seated polishing the greatsword she had made him take and gumbling in Qunlat about whatever it was Qunari grumbled about.

It took some time, but at last Eideann convinced a few of the others to go to bed, so they could at least make a second watch. They passed a fitful night at that watchtower, and when at last the second group roused to relieve them, Eideann took to her tent in hesitation.

It was not an easy night however. In her dreams, dragons stalked in the darkness, howling their painful roars at her, and everything seemed like it would slip into nothing. When she woke, tangled in blankets with Angus kicking in his sleep beside her, she had a growing sense of unease, and nothing that she did could shake it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann goes to confront Flemeth; Sten struggles to deal with a handful of women and the strangeness of Ferelden; Eideann gives Morrigan the grimoire, but only under certain conditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> NOTES: Thanks for the patience on waiting for this chapter everyone. We're back to regular posting again, so without further ado: Chapter 3.

Eideann was acting very strangely. She had split their party in two as they neared the Imperial Highway north through the wilds, and directed half of them, which included Leliana, Sten, Wynne, and Morrigan of all combinations, to continue northward. The other group, which was composed of a stomping golem that seemed far too gleeful over new accessories that shot lightning, an assassin no one trusted even a little, and himself, was to follow her east off the track and into the swamps. And Maker, he knew the path they were taking, even Blighted as it was and laid thick with ice and snow.

Flemeth’s hut was ahead, and for some reason they were going back to that creepy old apostate, and Alistair was almost positive it was because of something the Witch had said last night while she made evil potions by her evil fire and read her evil book and spoke evil things at Eideann in the darkness. Because she was evil, of course.

Or he decided to believe she was, since it made him feel better, for all they owed her their lives.

He did not like it one bit when Eideann refused to tell him why they were traipsing back in the direction the dragon had gone either. She was tightlipped and somber, her eyes set with that odd fierce fire she got when she had made up her mind and nothing could talk her out of it.

He really liked that look, sometimes. It was the sort that instantly flooded everyone with confidence. If Eideann Cousland had decided to do something, it would be done.

But he did not know what she was planning to do now. And without her telling him, he did not like that confidence one bit. It had to do with the Witch of the Wilds, and he just _knew_ he was going to hate it.

He had learned to read her somewhat over their months together, and he had a good idea that her jaw was set because she was deep in thought. She had wrestled with whatever idea this was for some time before deciding who would join her.

The golem traipsed along behind them, bristling with odd crystals and getting stuck every so often in the chilly mud of the swamps that suddenly sucked them under every so often. Eideann miraculously stepped clear of the puddles, and he presumed it was because she was able to track paths, but perhaps she simply remembered the path they had taken those many months before with Daveth and Jory.

He hoped they were both with the Maker now. Thedas was no place for the restless.

He pulled himself free of another sinking mud trap and heard a sharp laugh from behind him.

It was the assassin, who gave him a wry look and grinned at him, a toothy grin that made his skin crawl a little.

“Shut up,” he shot back, glaring. Stupid assassins and stupid Crows. Why was everyone they travelled with going to get them killed? They could probably manage that without the help. Zevran just tutted and shifted his bow on his back. Eideann had insisted he bring it. They had let the others take the horses, since they were sticking the road for the time being and swamps were hard enough terrain without foundering the only mounts they had. Alistair grimaced. “Why would the Crows send you, Zevran?” he asked, taking a different approach. If the assassin wanted to humiliate him, he would do it right back.

“Is there some reason why they should not?” Zevran asked simply, skirting a dying tree thick with Blight-rot.

“Plenty of reasons,” Alistair muttered, pressing on. “Starting with the fact that you weren’t exactly the best they had, were you?” Zevran sniffed, passing Alistair. The damn man was walking backwards. It was hardly fair.

“Slander and lies. For shame, Alistair,” he said, using his name like they were longtime friends. Alistair did not like it. He trusted Eideann knew what she was doing bringing the damn man along, but really, he was insufferable, and if he did not eventually slit their throats…well Alistair would be very surprised.

“I’m not an idiot,” he shot back. “Well, not most of the time. You’re no raw recruit, but I’ve seen you fight. You’re not master of combat, by any means.” Zevran’s toothy grin unnerved him again.

“Assuming that I intended a fair fight,” he said coyly, “that would indeed be a problem.”

“But the Crows must have master assassins, the way you describe them. Men with years and years of experience. Why not send them?” Why not? Did they not think them worth the trouble? Or perhaps they did not really want them dead at all. That was an unnerving possibility.

“Why not, indeed?” Zevran said vaguely, turning away and catching up with Eideann. “It is a mystery for the ages.” He slipped in on the opposite side of Angus who was padding through the woods with his nose high like he smelled something off.

“Oh, I get it,” Alistair grumbled. “You’re not going to tell me.”

“Morrigan said you were sharp,” Zevran grinned over his shoulder. “No liar, she.” Then he glanced to Eideann. “A question, my lady, where exactly are we going? I imagine it is not simply a pleasure jaunt.”

“We’re going to deal with a mage,” she said grimly, flatly, almost too quietly. It was an even tone, a dark tone, the sort she used when she was doing something distasteful. Alistair was immediately on guard.

“A mage?” Shale asked, and he could have sworn that the golem was grinning when its mouth opened wide with light and the crystals sprouting from its shoulders flared purple a moment. “Will we squash it?”

“If we have to,” Eideann replied, which was even more cryptic.

“Wait,” Alistair said. “We’re not actually going to fight Flemeth, are we?” Eideann did not answer, and he knew what that meant. “We are, aren’t we? What in the Maker’s name does this accomplish?”

“You are a Templar. Aren’t you supposed to be happy we’re hunting abominations?” Eideann shot back, her tone icy cold.

“I am _not_ a Templar, I just have Templar abilities.”

“And that’s why you’re here: to help fight a mage.”

“Maker, Eideann, I want to know what you’re doing now! This is Morrigan’s doing, isn’t it?” She did not answer again and he knew he was right. “She’s playing a game. We’re going to get killed doing her bidding, and all because she – “

“Enough!” She spun about, stopping abruptly, and he almost ran straight into her. But he was determined to know answers.

“Tell me what is going on!” he said in reply, and her eyes narrowed on him.

“Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, is a legend. You know why. She has, they say, lived for centuries, perhaps even longer. Do you want to know how she managed that?”

“She eats well and stays away from people?” he suggested in a huff. She sighed, turning away.

“She transfers her soul into the bodies of her daughters. Every Witch of the Wilds, each of her daughters… _is_ Flemeth. Morrigan is next. And we can put an end to that before it happens, with any luck.” Alistair threw his hands up.

“So we’re doing this to help her!?”

“No. We’re doing this because Morrigan has helped us, and because Flemeth is something very dangerous and very powerful, and if Morrigan is her next target, then we are all, collectively, her next target. There are enough targets on our back at the moment, thank you very much.” Zevran opened his mouth to speak but she shut him down before he could. “I have not forgotten about the danger you pose either. You are next if you so much as move wrong, elf.” He sighed, sheepishly, and then looked back at Alistair with a shrug.

“So…you really believe this story?” Alistair pressed. He did not. Not for one bit. It was ridiculous. People living for centuries? People transferring bodies.

But then he thought of Wynne coming back to life after the spirit joined with her, and he could hear a rushing sound in his ears. Whatever Morrigan’s mother had done to save them, it was old magic. It had made his skin tingle, his head hurt, and he had no idea what kind of magic it was. He still had no idea, but it was unheard of.

“What if she kills us?”

“I left the treaties with Leliana and instructions to reach the Grey Wardens of Orlais, as well as Empress Celene. There’s a letter there for her authorizing passage through Highever and Waking Sea should she need to. If we don’t meet up with them, Morrigan will continue to the Dalish, Leliana will travel to Orlais, and Wynne will deliver news to the Circle. As for you and I, I think that we may be fine.” Alistair felt a ripple of anger and hurried to walk beside her.

“What in the Maker’s name makes you think that?”

“Simple. Flemeth saved us because she knows Grey Wardens are needed to stop the Blight. I’m not quite sure why that is the case at the moment, but I am positive it has to do with the taint, and she would not risk our annihilation before. She would not now.” She looked grim again, like this was what she had spent her time puzzling out. Also, she looked tired, dark bags under her eyes, like she had not slept, or she had been haunted by Warden Dreams again.

“And you think she’ll just lie down and die or whatnot because we can’t?” he said flatly. Clearly she did, or she would not have said as much.

“Morrigan does not believe that killing her will stop her, just delay her. She needs Flemeth’s Grimoire to counter her, and that is our true target. Flemeth is unlikely to die simply because we kill her with swords. She’s an abomination, Morrigan believes, and I’m inclined to believe that much at least.”

“Do you really trust her?” he asked darkly. “Think about it…”

“You really don’t like each other, do you?” Eideann sighed, shaking her head. Her eyes saw right through him. Again. It was surprising how often that was happening of late. He narrowed his amber eyes and grimaced, adjusting his shield at his back.

“Well aside from the fact that she’s a complete and utter bitch,” he said sharply, earning a little surprise from her at the cursing, “no…I don’t like her at all.” His gaze slid sidelong to her. “Why? Do you?” He dared her to say yes. He hated the idea she might. Morrigan was just so…Morrigan. She was deliberately disagreeable, deliberately abrasive, deliberately cruel. She wanted only what was in her own interest, and damn the rest. For the time being, her own interests also including stopping the Blight, lucky for them, but she had other motives to be there, he knew, and he did not like that this was somehow for her. If Eideann actually liked her…

“I don’t have to like her,” Eideann said simply, and he felt everything in him relax. “She’s useful.”

That was maybe the worst answer, because Morrigan thought of things in terms of how they were useful to her. He did not like the comparison.

And yet Eideann had always tried to do right. She wielded her power with a careful hand. He had thought that she was a little high and mighty when they had first met, but knew now what had driven her caution, driven her seeming disregard. She had been trying to preempt a war on two fronts, while fighting her own, and no one had listened, and yet she was right. She had not led them wrong. They had a keep now, better armor. They had reclaimed Cailin’s things, given him a proper sendoff. He shrank a little at the thought in sadness but he had hardly known Cailin and it seemed still so unreal that he had not had the chance to process it properly. She was not Morrigan, operating in self-interest, even if she did think of things in terms of how they might be useful. Eideann Cousland was fierce and fiery, proud and courageous, strong and determined, and above all dedicated to the cause of ending the Blight no matter what, and returning peace to Ferelden. He knew it. And that made it easier to swallow.

“That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard out of you yet,” he said then, and she looked away, pushing forward beyond him. “Just remember that’s dangerous, too. And evil. And mean.”

“She is not evil, Alistair,” was all she replied. “She is scared.”

That was an odd thought. Morrigan frightened? But then…maybe…maybe he could see it? Is that how Eideann saw it? That the Witch in their small band of fellows was frightened for her life. If what she said about Flemeth was true, perhaps she had reason to be.

Eideann grimaced.

“There it is.”

Rising out of the woods and swamps, still some distance away, was the ramshackle hut leaning against an old, ruined tower on a small island. The way to the hut was still lined with old statues clutching bowls of magical fire that burned even now, when all the land about it was Blighted and blackened. Alistair felt something like nerves settle in the pit of his stomach.

“This is where the Swamp Witch dwelled?” Shale asked beside him. Alistair just nodded. “She and her mother.”

“Her mother is the witch from legend?” Zevran asked, and for once the damn assassin was frowning. Eideann nodded, then pursed her lips a moment before drawing one of her blades and pressing onward.

“Let me do the talking,” she said simply, and they hurried after her, readying their own weapons. The golem was glowing purple again. And it had that odd open mouthed smirk that seemed a permanent part of its carved, rocky face.

As they approached, Alistair could fell the hum of old magic, and it put him instantly on guard. He felt the cool steel of his shield through his leather gauntlet gloves and tightened his grip on his sword. At his side, the creak of a bowstring actually made him glad Zevran was there, which also was a very strange feeling.

There was a creak as the door swung outward, and the woman that emerged was looking right at them as they approached. Her eyes were the same as Morrigan’s, that twisted yellow like a cat’s eyes. Her hair was now twisted up into horns. She wore red leather and feathers and looked every inch a Witch of the Wilds, in a way that made even Morrigan seem tame in comparison.

“And so you return,” she said in a wry voice. Like she had been expecting them. Like she knew. She scanned them with cruel eyes. “Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn’t you say?” She waved a hand dismissively. She seemed a thousand years younger in that instant, and terrible and cold. Alistair suppressed a shiver, feeling the magic washing out from her like waves of the ocean lapping against the shore.

“So I should dance to your tune instead?” Eideann said quietly, and he felt the waves of danger coming from her too, but there was a warmth in hers, a fire that kindled a determination within him.

Flemeth just laughed, her grin cruel and wicked.

“Why dance at all? Why not sing?” Her eyes fixed on Eideann’s in the darkness, and Alistair felt the heavy weight of a battle of wills settle over them. Her grimaced, wishing to step forward, but Eideann would be furious if he did. Let her doing the talking, she had said. Fine. Flemeth sombered a little. “What has Morrigan told you, hmm? What little plan has she hatched this time.”

This time? And what _had_ Morrigan said, exactly. The story he understood, but what had convinced Eideann the need to act was now? This could still be a trick. It probably was.

“She knows how you extend your unnatural lifespan,” Eideann said simply. Alistair balked. Did she plan to tell Flemeth everything after dragging them through the woods without a word? What game was the woman playing at? He wanted to shake his head and be done with all the politics, but he bit his tongue instead.

“That she does,” Flemeth said in return, equally simply. “The question is, do you?” She turned away, pacing a little and staring off into the Blighted woods. “Ahh, but it is an old, old story. One that Flemeth has heard before…and even told.” Her yellow eyes slid to them then, narrow and considering. “Let us skip right to the ending, shall we?” She crossed her arms. “Do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids? Or does the tale take a different turn?” Eideann raised her chin a little, looking every inch a queen in his eyes, leader of a mighty force for good for all there were three of them, and two were of questionable moral caliber, especially as one was a rock.  
“I need Morrigan. I have no choice in this,” Eideann said. Since when had they needed Morrigan? There was certainly something odd in all of this, and he did not understand what it was. Where was the connection? What did Eideann find so valuable in the Witch anyway, to go this far to protect her? Did Eideann know more about her true motivations? He doubted it. Morrigan spoke to no one.

“Choice,” Flemeth said musingly. “There is power in choices, as there is in lies. I shall give you one of each.” Her eyes slid to Alistair’s for a brief moment and he felt his soul laid bare. He drew back, recoiling a little from it, and she grinned before looking back at Eideann.

 _She knows,_ Alistair thought anxiously. _She knows who I am._ Was that why Flemeth had saved them? He did not like to think on that.

“Morrigan wishes my grimoire?” Flemeth continued, focusing now on Eideann, the one who made such choices for them all. “Take it as a trophy. Tell her I am slain.”

“And where will you go?” Eideann asked frankly. Flemeth shrugged.

“I go. Perhaps I surprise Morrigan one day…or I may simply watch.” She considered them, as if she were looking through them, past them. “It would be interesting to see what she does with her freedom. Enlightening, even. Would you give an old woman that?”

“You think she will just believe you are dead,” Eideann said flatly, shaking her head. It was not a question, not really.

“We believe,” Flemeth said, repeating the sentiment she had spoken to them during the initiation and their preparations for the Joining, “what we want to believe. It’s all we ever do.”

There was a pregnant pause then, as if the entire Wilds had gone silent to see what happened next. Eideann did not move, did not even blink. And then, at last, she licked her lips.

“No,” she said in a soft, firm voice. Flemeth sighed, and something in her eased.

“Shame. What will it be, then?” she asked wryly. Eideann shook her head.

“You already knew how this would end. I am grateful for my life, but I cannot leave my rear unguarded. My choice is already made.” Flemeth gave her a smile, the sort of smile a mother gives a child who has just managed to make them a little proud, and she stretched.

“It is a dance poor Flemeth knows well. Let us see if she remembers the steps.” She circled about them a little, towards the high point of the island away from her hut. Alistair raised his shield. “Come. She will earn what she takes. I’d have it no other way.”  
Alistair felt a flood of magic, so much it hurt his head, and he instantly reached for any of his Templar magic. But it was too late. Flemeth was glowing, shifting, growing. She morphed, twisting and turning, until she sprouted great wings, a tail growing, her whole figure changing and shifting.

Into a dragon.

The dragon from the night before, the dragon that they had guarded against.

Maker’s blood.

***

Of all the…parashaara, leaving him with three mages and all the horses, and none of them properly tethered. He would have words with this Warden…this…well, he did not truly know what she was.

She was a warrior, but she was no Aqun-Athlok, instead relishing in her femininity. He had seen her staring at a rose the other day, though where she had found such a flower he could not begin to guess.

She was strange, this Warden, and she did not fit the rules. She seemed, instead, to make the rules, and that was disconcerting.

“Shok ebasit hissra,” he sighed. _Struggle is an illusion._ “Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun.” _The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless._ “Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.” _There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun._

“What are you muttering now?” That curt voice caught his attention and he forced the feeling of distaste away, glaring at the Witch. Whatever magic she was using, he did not wish to know. But his patience was wearing thing.

“You would not understand,” he said simply. She was a mage, unleashed and free. He itched to kill her on sight, but this was the South, and these uncivilized barbarians were on a quest of great importance. He was to answer the question of the Blight, not deal with basra mages.

“Not understand?” she asked archly, marching through the snow drifts that covered the Imperial Highway, one of the horses at her heels. “Is it mental capacity that you believe I lack?”

Yes. His lack of real reply made her bristle. He could see the feathers on her shoulder quivering. “Are you trying to make me angry?”

“It means I find myself wishing that your people held proper, civilized attitudes towards magic,” he shot back, adjusting the poorly-made sword at his back. These humans had no skill for weapons. What he needed was his sword back.

He felt half-complete. It was awful. He had no right to uphold the Qun until he was in full compliance himself. He had to find that blade, or die. For now, he was soulless.

“That is a rather hostile thing to say,” the Witch said darkly.

“And yet you continue speaking. Astonishing.” He stalked ahead, leaving the Witch with the other mage and the singing woman who was some sort of…priest? Except she was here fighting instead of being a priest, so he was unsure what she was as well.

Ferelden was confusing. And cold.

He missed Par Vollen.

“Why do you think they left us behind?” the Chantry sister was saying. Sten growled and peered into the Blighted Wilds in annoyance.

“No doubt Lady Eideann has some sort of plan in mind. She has her reasons,” Wynne said gently. The other mage. She talked more than the Witch did. Earlier, he had fussed over the fact he had no cloak. He needed no cloak. He was Qunari, not a child.

He turned then and silenced them all with a glare.

“Parashaara,” he spat, “enough. Listen.” There was a rumbling in the distance, in the east, where the other group had gone. And then a great shriek split the sky and he gave a curse. Leliana started.

“That sounded like the dragon.”

“They would not have gone to find it,” Wynne said, as if it were a question. Morrigan looked pale.

“We should move. We agreed to meet them on the far side, and with a dragon on their heels that may be sooner than later.”

“What are you hiding?” Sten shot back. Morrigan ignored him, turning to mount her horse and then looking with concern east.

“The Wilds are not safe. We must press on.” Sten glared, reaching to catch her reins and hold her there.

“As-eb vashe-qalab! We do not follow you,” he snapped. She glared, he glared, and finally the priest woman stepped between them.

“Enough. She is right. The Wardens gave us instructions, and I trust them. We will do as they ask. Anyway, they have Shale. A dragon cannot kill a golem, surely. Are they not immortal? Someone will be there to meet us, I am sure of it. We must trust to the Maker to protect them.” It was a pointless statement, especially to the Witch, but there was no use arguing. Sten tore free of the bridle he was holding and then stalked off towards the other horses.

It was foolish to run. Ataashi had to be killed. The embodied chaos itself.

He felt cowardly. A soldier of the beresaad did not run.

But he could follow instructions. And that Warden woman had been specific.

 _We will meet you further north. Take the Imperial Highway until the swamp thins out a little and we shall join you by nightfall,_ she had said. So be it, he would stick to the plan, but he would get answers.

It was his job to answer questions.

***

Fire was hot. Very hot.

It had scorched the blasted earth, and Eideann felt the wind knocked from her as she dove clear just in time. Her Warden blades went flying as she hit the ground hard and struggled to breath again.

Zevran heaved her up, half-dragging her out of the way. She turned, desperately, to see the sight of Alistair running for cover about the dragon’s legs.

A dragon?! Maker’s blood! How had the damn witch managed that?!

She hurried to retrieve her blade and then nodded to Zevran, whose face was a mask of concern. He had a large burn on one arm from where the initial blast had grazed him.

Flemeth roared, a sky-splitting roar that forced a cry of pain from Eideann’s lips and hurt her ears. She staggered a little, then dove back towards the fray.

Shale took the full brunt of the next burst of flame, but emerged unscathed, smoking slightly, and stomping boulder-feet on the hillside in a fury. Eideann skirted about the golem, launching herself into the clear space underneath the dragon.

The earth was moving under their feet as she slammed clawed legs back into the ground. Her wings beat a tempest, drawing them inward, and Eideann was staggered backwards as she went.

How did actual dragon-slayers manage this?

_The Archdemon is a dragon, dammit. Think of it as practice._

She caught Alistair’s eye as she joined her, his armor scratched and scorched. He read her intentions in an instant and gave a nod.

Then they split.

The snow that had covered the small island was melted into puddles, but still made getting purchase on the ground difficult, so Eideann swung about backwards, heading for Flemeth’s swooping tail. She had to duck as it swung back and forth, and she staggered out of the way before finally being able to grasp it with the very ends of her fingertips and haul herself up onto the scaled creature’s back end. Flemeth roared, and reared back again, but Eideann caught a handhold on her scales and managed to stay on, though only just. It left her dangling dangerously as Alistair went straight for the underbelly, hacking at the scales that covered Flemeth’s heart. Eideann hauled herself up, scrabbling atop the creature with a desperation, as Shale gripped the massive tail and managed, only partially, to hold Flemeth down.

Flemeth roared, twisting her serpentine neck about and snapping at Eideann on her back. Eideann leaped clear, sliding down the front leg and clear. Flemeth followed, fire boiling in her maw, hot heat the only warning. Eideann landed heavily and rolled, trying to put any distance she could between herself and the flames that were to come next.

Alistair took the chance, launching himself up onto Flemeth’s back by the other leg and racing up her neck, blocking the spurt of fire with his shield. Warden shields, it seemed, were made to withstand fire.

She should not have been surprised. They were made to combat Archdemons after all. Even so, Alistair gave a roar of pain as the heat seared into his glove, the superheated metal blistering through his leather glove.

But he did not stop. He cast it aside, using that hand instead to grip the horns atop the dragon’s head and straddle her neck.

Flemeth tossed, sensing the danger, and Eideann dove clear as she stomped about, shouting at Shale to let her go. Alistair clung on for dear life, sword flailing uselessly, but then he gained better purchase. His sword flashed, gold and silverite, and came down, hacking, slashing.

Once. Twice.

Flemeth gave a sharp scream, half dragon, half old woman it appeared, and then a final roar, as Alistair drove his sword deep into her skull. A fountain of blood poured out, showering them all in gore and red, and Flemeth fell, dragon form slamming into the earth.

Alistair hit the ground hard, rolling and hurriedly taking a few steps backwards with a look of panic. Flemeth did not move. A pool of blood was collecting about her, under her, and the yellow dragon eyes were eclipsed with death.

Eideann skirted the dragon carefully, staring. Angus came bounding from Zevran’s side, whining and sniffing, but he too seemed to agree the Witch of the Wilds was dead.

Alistair was panting, and Eideann was too, and Shale came stomping up to join them.

“I think I got chipped,” the golem said with a sniff. Eideann stared, then gave a laugh of relief. Alistair snorted and turned away, unable to keep a straight face. Then he grinned at Eideann, all covered in gore and filthy, looking like he had travelled through the Fade itself to arrive at that point. She met his eyes, still laughing, and then tossed her swords aside, even as he did, and ran to him.

They met in a crush of metal and Warden quilted silk, a mess both of them. It did not matter. She flung her arms about him, head back and laughing.

“Maker’s blood! You did it!” she grinned. He looked as dazed as she was.

“I thought…I thought I was dead for sure,” he panted, releasing her and taking a step back. His eyes slipped to the dragon, and for a moment they could not look away. Then he sighed, his smile slipping. “She said something about a grimoire.” Eideann sighed, scrubbing a leather-gloved hand through her blood-splattered hair, still short and scruffy for all Leliana had tried to even it up a little.

“Yes. I bet it’s in the hut.”

“Eideann…” His smile was gone now. He was gazing at her fiercely. “Do not tell me you just made me fight a blighted _dragon_ for a book.”

“Think of it as good practice for the Archdemon,” Eideann said, repeating her earlier thoughts. He shook his head angrily.

“Eideann!”

“What is done is done. And you did very well.” She turned away, unable to bear his frustration any more, and caught sight of Zevran, warily watching them and nursing his burned arm. “Maybe there is something inside to help with that too,” she suggested, and he just gave her a pained grimace.

“As much as I would love to lose the functionality of my arm for such a beautiful woman, I imagine I would be far less helpful to you were that to be the case,” he told her, following her to the hut where she pulled the door open wide.

She remembered it, from waking up after Ostagar, heartsore and angry and confused and in pain. It seemed smaller than she remembered.

She went through the shelves until she found a small jar of spindleweed that was drying but still useful. She hurried prepared a salve, doing her best with the ingredients at hand and knowing that almost anyone else would have been better. At least she knew her herbs. At least there was that. Then she smothered it liberally over Zevran’s arm and wound a fresh bandage from her pack around the wound. She looked to Alistair next, who was flexing his blistered arm with a wince, and then ushered him over. He came reluctantly, because he was still annoyed with her, and sat silently as she worked, gritting his teeth against the pain of the salve.

“I’m sorry I did not tell you,” she said after a moment. He sighed.

“It better be worth it,” he finally said, but he was not angry anymore, just resolute.

It was worth it. With this, Morrigan owed her answers, and Eideann fully intended to have them.

They went through the rest of the hut then, until at last Zevran gave a shout and motioned to a book lying half under a table, its cover blackened leather embossed with a tree.

“There,” he said, “that matches the one our lovely Witch has back at camp, hmm?” Eideann bent to pull it free, examining it. She flipped open the cover and found a language she could not read. She sighed.

“Yes, this is it.” Alistair was watching her warily from the door. Shale, once again unable to fit, was peering through the doorframe with what could only be described as impatience. “We should get back to the others. You’ll get better treatment from Wynne, and I don’t want to be around if she…well…”

“What? She’s dead,” Alistair said flatly. “She’s not going to get up again, is she?” A flash of genuine worry came over him. “Is she?”

“I really don’t know,” Eideann said flatly, stalking out of the door and motioning to Angus who pranced to her, barking happily at her feet. Alistair was still staring, but they really did need to move, and the way to the northward meeting point was another thing she was not entirely sure of. They had arranged to meet where they had originally joined the Imperial Highway on the way northward, but it took some doing remembering the way with all the snow and the landscape Blighted as it was. She was going to have to track very carefully, and midday had been and gone. She wanted to reach the Highway before dark, and the safety of their larger group.

The trek north was difficult, more so than the journey from the ancient Warden watchtower had been. She had to skirt several large, semi-frozen lakes that were thick with rot and stagnant with blight mulch. No one was talking to her, with the exception of Angus who was growling and sniffing and snuffling about in his usual mabari way. Eideann was tracking mostly by the sun now, and through what she could recall of their first trip through the woods.

For a while she believed that she had led them astray, until at last, in the setting sunlight, the arching structures of bone-white Tevinter architecture rose high through the Blighted trees, shining in the last of the daylight.

Atop, the rest of their party was standing, having established a camp of sorts with a small fire, barricading the road at the north and the south for security. Wynne took one look at the injuries sustained and went to work, her scowl showing her dismay. Eideann left Alistair and Zevran with her, knocking the snow from her boots before crossing to Morrigan.

The book felt strange in her hands, heavy, as she approached. Morrigan’s eyes were wide, like she had hardly dared to hope.  
Her eyes followed the book in her hands. But Eideann did not immediately hand it over.

“Flemeth is dead. You are free,” she said after a moment, but she made no motion to pass over the book. Morrigan gave her a strange look.

“Dead…? You actually managed it? I barely dared to hope ‘twas even possible,” she finally said, her voice surprised. “And the real grimoire?” Her eyes flickered pointedly to the book in Eideann’s hands.

“This,” Eideann said slowly, “comes with a price. You shall have it, but in return a day will come when questions must be answered, and one that day you will answer them. Each and every one I ask. Is that clear?” A darkness flickered over the Witch of the Wilds a moment, but then she raised her chin and fixed Eideann with a look almost as fierce as her own could be.

“So be it. An even trade. But I cannot guarantee you will like the answers I give.”

“So long as they are truthful answers, I will accept them,” Eideann said, but she held out the book then, and Morrigan accepted it, tucking it carefully against her body like it were a treasure unlike any other in the world.

“Thank you…for helping me.” She said after a moment, her eyes softening every so slightly, averted like she could not really say it in a heartfelt way. “No one has ever…thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Eideann said softly, turning away herself to make sure the others were fine. Morrigan sighed beside her, arms tight about the book.

“We are hopefully free of any further pressing obligations involved my protection,” she said with a sigh. Eideann nodded, then licked her lips.

“It was Alistair, you know, who dealt the blow. You should perhaps thank _him_ , sometime,” was the last thing she said before she went to stand beside the small fire for warmth. Angus was there, and he licked at the dried blood coating her armor, before she pushed him gently away. “Now, now, boy. We don’t need you being a Reaver as well as a Warden,” she said simply, and he just gave a bark.

“I do not understand.” Eideann shot up, blinking, to see Sten the Qunari hovering nearby, a confused look on his face. She shook her head at him, prompting him to continue. “You look like a woman.”

“I _am_ a woman,” she said simply.

“You are a Grey Warden,” she said simply, his eyes narrowing as he stared past her, keeping his eye on Morrigan. “So it follows that you can’t be a woman.” She sighed, crossing her arms, and Angus slunk away with a low whine.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Sten,” she said darkly. He nodded, his eyes slipping back to her. They were an odd purple, which was somewhat unsettling. Of all the many unsettling things about the man…

“So you understand my confusion, then.” She rolled her eyes.

“Not precisely, no,” she said, turning away and stirring the small pot of leftover stew Leliana had been heating when they arrived. It was not yet ready, not yet warm, but soon. She could already smell it, and she was starving.

“Women are priests, artisans, shopkeepers, or farmers. They don’t fight.”

“What if they don’t want to be any of those things? I can't preach Chantry nonsense, I hate bartering, and I can’t grow a damn thing if I tried,” Eideann said simply. “The only art I am capable of is dancing, and that only with a sword in my hand.” Sten ignored her, his nose wrinkling a little. “It is not a universal truth. Some women do fight.” She motioned about to the other women making up half of their group, and quirked an eyebrow.

“Why would women ever wish to be men?” Sten sighed, grumpy. “That makes no sense.”

“You think they can’t be women because women don’t fight?” she asked him pointedly.

“Exactly.” She narrowed her eyes.

“When the Tevinters appeared on the shores of Seheron to battle the Qunari, do you think they spared the women? When the fog warriors came out of the mists, do you think they let those who did not fight go? No. It was better to fight and live than follow the damned prescriptions of the Qun with the promise of being killed. And the same is true here. I either fight and kill the Archdemon, or the Blight swallows the world. You really do _not_ want me to put away my sword now, Sten. Stop trying to convince me that your expectations of me are low enough I should give up. I am a woman and I am fighting.” He blinked, startled, then sniffed.

“One of those things can’t be true,” he insisted. She glared.

“I shall strip down naked and show you if you doubt it,” she threatened angrily, but he sniffed again and crossed his arms.

“A person is born: qunari, or human, or elven, or dwarf. He doesn’t choose that,” he continued, as if it would work, as if he could convince her she was not exactly what she was then and always. “The size of his hands, whether he is clever or foolish, the land he comes from, the color of his hair. These are beyond his control. We do not choose, we simply are.”

“I did not choose to be a Grey Warden. I did not choose to battle the Blight. They simply are things that I am and I do. And in order to be who I am, to do what I must do,” she said darkly, “I choose to fight. A person _can_ choose what to do, and in so doing they become who they are.”

“Can they?” Sten said skeptically, as if she were leading him on. He was three parts infuriating to every one part useful, Eideann decided. “We’ll see.” Then he turned away and drew his sword, taking a seat on the edge of the stone road fence to sharpen it. Eideann glared after him, then turned back to the stew.

 _Ignore the annoying Qunari for the moment,_ she told herself, _and focus on what is next. _What was next was finding the elves, and Maker she had no idea how to do that. She had planned to delve into the Brecilian Forest and hopefully hear of something, but with the Blight spreading so quickly, she was not convinced this was really even something she could manage now. She was determined to find some, any, because she knew that Dalish hunters were legendary, and against a dragon she needed more archers. She sighed, finally deciding the leftover stew was done, and lumping some into her bowl to finish off. Then she sank back against the far side of the road to think.__

__Her head was aching. She was still covered in Flemeth’s dragon-blood. Her entire being was aching with fatigue._ _

__“Mages, elves, dwarves, Arl Eamon. Mages, elves, dwarves, Arl Eamon.”_ _

__“You’re muttering,” Leliana said as she approached, joining her with some of the stew and considering her. She eyed up her bloodied hair and gave a tut at whatever she saw, then sighed. “You should not do this, you know, go off and stand alone and watch everyone else try to make friends while you keep your secrets close.”_ _

__“Fine words from a spy,” Eideann replied quietly, but there was no malice in it. Leliana just gave a knowing smile._ _

__“It makes it hard to trust you when you do not tell others of your plans. Zevran and Alistair are quite upset at you for making them go face a dragon.” A flash of hesitation shot through the woman a moment before she sighed. “You _did_ face a dragon, then?”_ _

__“Something like that,” Eideann shrugged, delaying further conversation by spooning some of the stew into her mouth and preventing herself from speaking. Leliana did not fall for it. She stayed silent, waiting, until at last Eideann had no choice. “Look, I did not tell them because they would not have liked it.”_ _

__“So you led them to danger without warning?” Leliana said quietly. That was fair. It was true. But also, that was expected, and they had to understand that._ _

__“We are wanted criminals roaming Blighted lands with an aim to hunt and kill an Archdemon. Fighting a dragon should be nothing compared to that. And sometimes we must do things because it is in the best interest of the group.”_ _

__“Or the best interest of Morrigan?” So that was what this was. Eideann set aside her bowl, shaking her head._ _

__“This was not about just Morrigan. Flemeth…well, as a bard you know the stories, no doubt. A powerful creature, dangerous, and she was probably going to be hunting us. I can’t have your assassins, Zevran’s assassins, Morrigan’s mother, and all of Loghain’s men after us. I can’t fight so many battles. This was a chance to get rid of one of our enemies and I did. And now Morrigan has a debt to repay, and she knows it.” Her blue Cousland eyes flickered to where the Witch was sitting alone, again, carefully reading through the new book, oblivious to the world. “Honestly, I hope she finds something useful in it, and I hope it binds her closer to our cause, because she learned from Flemeth and Flemeth’s magic could prove vital by the time we are through. But I did not do it just for an edge. I did it because some things must be done. Some things are _right_ , and I have been so used to making these decisions on my own that I sometimes forget to let everyone else know.” Leliana sat back, thoughtful._ _

__“I do not blame you, you know. I think it was well done, saving Morrigan. Perhaps it will bring her closer into the fold. But I wish you had told them. They were worried, and it was very dangerous.”_ _

__“Well, I didn’t realize we were going to fight a dragon, or I would probably have forsaken the whole thing myself,” Eideann said sharply. She shook her head. “There’s little enough choice now in all the things we do. When we can help one another, I think we must. We are fighting a Blight and a Civil War, and the only people I can rely on right now live here or in the Circle of Magi. Until we have more…”_ _

__“I know.” Leliana silenced her with a knowing look. “You are not trying to put us in danger. You do care, in your own way, about everyone here. Even…” Her gaze slid to the Qunari, “even Sten, and he annoys you. Do not think I do not see the goodness in you. You do not seek to use us. That is why we follow.” Eideann considered her then, and then let her eyes scan the others in the camp. Wynne had finished patching up the boys, who were flexing their arms and checking on the progress and thanking her for their work. Zevran was trying to flirt, Maker help them all, but Wynne was having none of it. Eideann sighed._ _

__“I don’t want to get too close,” she finally said. “If I do…and something happens…”_ _

__“You won’t let something happen. And neither will we,” the Orlesian bard said with a small, promising smile. “Wynne said Alistair and you were…growing close.” Eideann started, then gave a low hiss._ _

__“Maker’s blood, leave it well enough alone.” Leliana just gave a soft laugh, pushing herself up and giving Eideann some space._ _

__“I think it’s cute,” she said softly. “And I think you are good for him. He just does not know it yet.” Then she took Eideann’s bowl for her and walked away, a dancing, swaying sort of swagger that bowmen and bards alone could pull off as she returned to the fireside. “Sten,” Eideann heard her say when the firelight fell on her, “stop preaching to Eideann.”_ _

__Eideann was not sure if the words were what amused her more, or the expression on Sten’s face as he stalked off to go and speak instead with Shale. Either way, she laughed, and was grateful for the small reprieve, even if she was covered in blood._ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets an offer he cannot refuse; Zevran shares a little about his past which prompts some comraderie between the group members; Eideann's band finds the Dalish; Alistair finally shares his feelings with Eideann.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Violence

The chant was echoing in the cloister, the low and gentle hum of the Canticle of Trials. If it had been any other time, he would have found peace in it, but not now. Now it made him think of standing firm against demons.

 _Of course it’s a demon of desire,_ he thought angrily, forcing himself to calm, _you can’t even be original in your own sins._

It was terribly stereotypical, the Templar and the Desire Demon. He hated it, hated it so much he felt it turn like poison inside. Once again a deep breath. Once again calm.

_Solona._

He turned his head upward, on his knees as he was, to peer up at the statue of Andraste, hands outstretched, like she were reveling in the Chant. The rose glass poured warm light down on her, and he swallowed, hard, begging for forgiveness, begging for reprieve from his plight. Maker, he had tried, tried so hard. That one slip, that one small misstep, an ill-held infatuation.

They had found Solona’s body in the dungeons where she had been awaiting judgement. He already knew they were speaking of the Rite of Tranquility for her. She had helped a blood mage, after all. But she had never made it to the Rite, and he was glad in a way, because he did not think he could bear to see the light gone from her eyes, the smile absent and all left behind the hollow shell of a person.

He had gone to see the body, despite Greagoir’s warnings, to assure himself that the spirit in his dreams that haunted his moments and left him weak and shaking was not her. He had to know, had to see that it had never been her, always the demon. There had to be some goodness.

Her red hair had been covered in blood, her blood. Her eyes, vibrant and bright clear blue, had been fixed on the ceiling above her. She had been devoured by a demon of rage, scorch marks on the floor about her, her Circle robes tattered and singed.

A great hole had been burned through her chest, a blackened husk now empty.

Solona Amell was dead. The thing in his nightmares now was cruelty.

“Not Cruelty,” it had told him when he had shouted at it in his dreams the night before. “Salacity. My name is Salacity.” As if demons had names.

Maybe they did. Or his did.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure…_

Praying never worked. Not anymore. Salacity was also insatiable, a constant presence, haunting him with the nightmares of Solona and all he had longed for, knowing him in ways nothing should.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to die.

Greagoir had sent him away. What good was a broken Templar? It was all he had ever wanted, and Greagoir had sent him away to Greenfell, a small Chantry located on one of the islands of Waking Sea, far from the Circle, far from anything, even possibly far from the Blight.

He had not wanted to go, but he had been forced to. He had not liked seeing all the refugees fleeing. It had left him feeling unsettled. He had wanted to fight the Blight, to watch the mages. They needed watching, now more than ever.

But he had only managed to eat a little in that first week after the Wardens cleared Kinloch Hold of abominations, and what he had managed to get down he promptly vomited back up on the flagstones when he had seen Solona’s corpse. He felt tears at his eyes and he pushed them away.

“Here he is,” someone said behind him. He only half heard it. It was a surprise then, to feel a light touch on his shoulder, and he immediately leapt up, staggering back, staring wildly at the surprised Brother who was standing with him.

A woman stood behind him, probably middle-aged, her long hair a platinum mess of curls that spilled from the red hood beneath the diadem of Andraste. Her eyes were like ice, cold and severe. She wore the ornate armor of a Templar, a Knight-Commander.

“Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford?” she asked simply. He considered her, imagining he probably looked a mess, and he curtly gave her a salute.

“Knight-Commander?”

“Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard,” she said in a voice that sounded like stone itself. Here was a hard woman. “I hear you hail from Kinloch Hold?” He was instantly on guard, but he gave a slow nod. She circled him a little, considering his stance, as if surveying a recruit line-up. “Greagoir sent you here, did he?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander. I…he wanted me to recover.”

“You had a difficult experience there,” she said, revealing she knew exactly what he was doing at Greenfell where the rain always fell and the skies were a soft gray and nothing terrible ever happened. “I understand mages seized the tower and used blood magic.” He drew a breath, forcing it to stay steady.

“Yes, Knight-Commander. They led a revolt. I tried to battle them but was captured and…held prisoner. Knight-Commander Greagoir would not annul the Tower afterward. We…disagreed. He decided I needed to…” How had the man put it? Cullen thought back bitterly, “level out.” Knight-Commander Meredith’s eyes narrowed and she stepped back, crossing her arms.

“A Circle full of blood mages and _you_ should level out?” she asked skeptically. “I hardly think that was Greagoir’s best decision to date. I shall have to make sure the White Spire is aware.” She licked her thin lips, then considered him. “Do you know who I am? Why I’m here?” Cullen shook his head slowly. He had pointedly not listened to news the last few weeks. It hurt to think on news. It hurt to think on anything. And he had had his hands full of Salacity. Or his head at least. Knight-Commander Meredith considered him again, then raised her chin. She would have been dainty were she not like a steel rod. He took some comfort in her strength.

“I am from Kirkwall, where I am Knight-Commander of the Gallows. Kirkwall is not a pleasant place, Ser Cullen. I imagine you’ve heard the tales?” He had. They filled him with dread.

They filled him with purpose. What had happened in Kinloch Hold, an entire Tower falling to blood mages, would never happen in Kirkwall. He knew that like he knew how to breathe.

He gave a nod. Meredith smiled ever so slightly.

“Greagoir made a mistake sending you away. You were the best man in that Tower, standing against the mages as long as you did. You have seen what they can do. I could use people like you.” He grimaced, and she motioned for him to walk with her. They left the Chantry Brother amidst the pews as they made their rounds of the building, taking a side door into the raining gardens. “Kirkwall is a dangerous posting, but nowhere in the world is our duty as Templars clearer, Ser Cullen,” Meredith told him. “Tell me…the demon who haunts you. What is its name?” He hesitated. If he admitted to it, what would she do? Surely a Templar should not be playing host to demons in his dreams. She read his look, because she laughed, shaking her head. “All Templars have a demon, Ser Cullen. And all demons have names. We must battle them as we battle all others, and it is a mark of strength for you to have come through so much and not fallen. I respect you for it.” What was her demon? He wanted to know suddenly.

“Salacity,” he said quietly. “I…there was a girl in the Tower, but she was killed.”

“A mage?” Meredith’s eyes flashed dangerously. Cullen dared not lie. Not to her. She was the first to really speak to him since he had arrived. Half the others here were lyrium-addled or mad. They avoided him. They knew of Kinloch Hold and they were wary of what he might do.

“Yes.” Meredith looked up towards the sky, hands on her hips, sharp Templar plate gauntlets coating her fingers and turning them into talons.

“Mages cannot be our friends,” she told him quietly, firmly. He nodded.

“I know.”

“Good.” She looked back at him. “I suspect you are wondering why I am here?” He nodded and she smiled slightly at him. “Kirkwall is in need of new officers. I have several positions open, and many I can fill from within my own ranks. However, I heard what had happened here, and I decided I wanted to come and speak to you myself.” She pursed her lips. “Many Templars pass through the ranks without ever experiencing the true dangers of being a Templar. They do not understand why we are necessary, why we are needed. They have never seen action. It is not enough to simply witness a Harrowing, to stand as the Sword of Mercy. You, however, are not like them.” She considered him. “You are a Knight-Corporal, I was told?”

He had forgotten. Greagoir had conferred the honor on him for his service in the Tower, and partly as apology for sending him away. He had never used the title itself though, and he had not thought much on it until then. He had had no need to.

“Yes, Knight-Commander, though I have not been for long.”

“Nor will you be for long either,” she said. “I told you I need officers. I want you to come to Kirkwall, Cullen. I want you in my ranks, a man of your experience, a man unafraid to do his duty, to speak up for what must be done, a man who can stand against demons and blood mages and emerge still prepared to do what he must.” Cullen felt a twinge of hesitation, of fear. To be with mages so quickly again. But Meredith was watching, and she knew what he was thinking again, and she put up a hand to stop him. “Kirkwall needs men who know the dangers of magic, who know they are the barrier between demons and people. Kirkwall needs protectors.”

“I am honored, Knight-Commander, that you think so highly of me,” he said softly.

“I want you to be a Knight-Lieutenant. I have yet to name a Knight-Captain, but I will in a year’s time, from those who serve in my ranks. You will be competing for that title, Knight-Corporal, do you understand. This will not be an easy assignment. You must earn it.” A rush went through him. Knight-Lieutenant, and later perhaps even Knight-Captain. He would never have another opportunity. And Ferelden…

He wanted to leave Ferelden behind. It was a place of Blight and blood magic and horrible memories.

This was a chance, one he could not turn down. Whatever nerves he felt, he settled in the surety that this was his duty. The Maker was answering his prayers, giving him a way to rise again into the Light, to serve and be the protector against evil, Defender of the Faith.

His brown eyes fixed on Meredith’s blue and she smiled a little at what she saw there.

“Don’t let me down, Knight-Lieutenant,” she said simply, and he threw the sharpest salute he could. “Go, pack your things. We are leaving at three bells.”

***

“So…we’re just walking around until we get lucky then?”

Eideann shot Alistair a dark look and he shrugged.

“What? That certainly seems like the plan to me,” he said grimly. They had been scouring the forests for any sign for days ever since they had reached the edge of the Blight and emerged into trees that were doing far better than the blackened husks of the swampy Wilds. Also, the ground was firmer, so he had more opportunity to complain now.

Eideann was a good tracker, he knew, but how good was tracking really if they did not even know if what they were looking for had ever even been there in the first place.

“The Dalish have wagons that they pull with Halla,” Eideann said. “Halla leave signs and so do wagons. I will know when I see them.” Alistair raised an eyebrow, then sighed. Ahead, Zevran was nursing his burned arm, still on the mend, and considering the trees.

“My mother was Dalish,” he said after a moment, and Alistair looked up in surprise. Eideann did not, but she did reply.

“Does that mean you’re being deliberately unhelpful?” He gave a nervous laugh.

“I know little enough of the Dalish other than the fact my mother was one,” he backtracked. “Or so I was told.” He stepped over an exposed root and shrugged. “She had fallen in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good.” Leliana was listening with interest, like she was gathering a good story. Alistair rolled his eyes. Zevran was gazing whimsically out into the trees again, his bow in both hands. “And there, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book.” He shot Leliana a grin that said he knew full well she wanted a more romantic story.

“So you’re an assassin and a son of a whore,” Alistair said flatly. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Zevran, that’s horrible!” the bard said, full of pity.

“Is it?” Zevran asked. “It seemed normal enough a tale growing up, no different than the other elven boys in the whorehouse.” He shrugged again, following Eideann through the woods a little further. “I didn’t know my mother, either, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were.” Alistair felt a little sick at the comparison. Zevran was not smiling any more. “We were all raised communally by the whores. It was a happy enough existence, ignoring the occasional beating, until eventually I was sold to the Crows. I brought a good price, so I hear.”

“I am so sorry for you, Zevran,” Leliana said quietly, hearing his bitter tone as clear as the rest of them. Zevran sighed.

“That’s very kind of you to say, but it is not necessary.” Alistair thought of sleeping in the stables, being chased out by the horse-master when he slept in too late and was caught, and grimaced. Had none of them been raised in a house? Sten seemed like he had never been a child, Leliana had spoken before about her mother being a servant in Orlais. It seemed of all of them only Eideann had had a bed of her own to sleep in at night. Even Morrigan had nothing to compare.

“It could have been much worse,” Zevran said, honestly for once. Alistair was sure that was honesty. “Shall I tell you what happened to the other whorehouse boys who did not fetch a decent price with the Crows?” He shook his head. “Surely no life has been idyllic here. People like we lot are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all, or we would not be wandering through tangled woods in search of people who don’t want to see any of us anyway.”

“I slept in the stables,” Alistair said suddenly. “If I was lucky.” It seemed appropriate to share.

“My mother died when I was very young,” Leliana said quietly, joining in. “Lady Cecilie took me in, let me sing and dance for her, but she did not have to. When I was old enough, I became a player in the game.”

“We just _killed_ my mother, and good riddance,” Morrigan said, her face angry, “but at least we have her spells, and that is not nothing.” Wynne sighed, taking Alistair’s hand as he helped her over the root.

“The Circle is not unpleasant, but before I was taken there. I do not remember much before, but I do remember a freehold called Langwynne. I was staying in a hayloft until the farmer’s wife found me and took me in. She called me Wynne. But that did not last long. I set her son’s hair on fire. She locked me back in the hayloft, and the Templars came the next day.” Alistair stared, and Leliana barked a laugh at the thought. Wynne gave a sheepish look.

“A child has too much to learn,” Sten said grimly. “There is no time for playing and setting people aflame among the Qun. A child is given to the Tamassrans who raise us and teach us our roles. We have no families. We have purpose instead.”

Shale snorted.

“I’ve already told you my traumatic memories of pigeon crap and boring villagers,” the golem snapped, stomping along through the trees and doing damage with each step. “If I could remember anything else, I’m sure it would be equally boring.”

And that left only Eideann.

She said nothing. There was an odd silence. And then at last she sighed.

“I have no stories of sleeping in stables or haylofts. I’ve never stepped foot in a whorehouse. My mother gave me no songs or magic. She gave me political acumen, and that will have to be enough,” she said quietly. Alistair watched her walk out into the tall trees and grimaced.

“Go,” Leliana nudged him, “speak with her.”

“And say what?” he murmured back. “I cannot fix this.” He could tell her, he supposed. He had been meaning to. But it seemed an odd time to bring up his lineage, and he was not sure it would even help anyway. _I’m noble too, but also not, and I did sleep in stables, so it doesn’t matter_. That would go down well, certainly. He shook his head. “She knows what she is doing. She’s the Warden-Commander of Ferelden.”

Saying it then, suddenly, aloud, it sounded so natural. He had never really considered it, not truly, but it was not him. He was not the Warden-Commander. Eideann Cousland headed the Grey Wardens of Ferelden (all two of them) and that was enough.

There was shouting suddenly, the sounds of people barging through the trees, and Eideann drew her swords in a flash. Leliana and Zevran were nocking and aiming without a moment’s pause.

It was a band of men who burst through the trees, panic clear on their faces, and behind them the snarling of some beast. Arrows flew the moment it appeared, piercing coarse fur and causing the beast to roar.

“Werewolves!” one of the fleeing men cried, getting out of the way. Eideann swung her swords, so quick they were arcs of shining light in the forest underbrush, and the werewolf howled again, lashing out with vicious claws.

Alistair was there in an instant, blocking the blow, feeling it reverberate up his injured arm. But it succeeded and Eideann spun out to hamstring the beast and bring it down. She slammed her swordpoint home and then wrenched the blade free and stepped back.

They were all still covered in the grim of the road, the forest, and the battle with Flemeth. Maker, they needed to bathe.

It was a fearsome enough sight that the fleeing men tried to flee from them next, until Morrigan transformed into a bear and blocked their path and Leliana and Zevran trained their arrows on the group. Sten, greatsword drawn, stood imposingly over them. Alistair glanced to Eideann who blinked.

“A werewolf? They’ve not been seen since…”

“Since the Black Age,” Eideann finished. “Banns Mather and Haelia Cousland rallied the Bannorn to drive away the werewolves. It is how they became a Teyrnir.” Alistair had not been familiar with that, but it had definitely been a long time. Longer than before Calenhad’s reign. Maker, why couldn’t anything normal happen to them?

“They’re living in the forest. Please, don’t kill us!” one of the fleeing men shouted at them, figuring them for the leaders. Eideann motioned to the others to desist, and Morrigan reluctantly returned to human form. The others lowered their weapons grudgingly.

“How far did you run to escape them?”

“Not far. We only just encountered them while we were running from the elves…” another man said, eyeing Zevran up warily.

“Elves?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“The Dalish?” Leliana pressed. The fleeing men nodded, desperate. Eideann sheathed her blades and crossed to them, meeting them on their own terms.

“Tell us where to find them.”

“They’re two days east from here,” the first man spluttered. “Please, we don’t want trouble. They are not friendly.”

“Two days,” Eideann cursed softly. “They’ll move before we reach them. They could be anywhere.”

“No,” one of the men said hurriedly. “They’re not moving. They can’t. Half their clan is sick with the werewolf plague. They threatened to kill us for getting too close. But we didn’t know it. We thought…we thought…” He ducked his head. “Please, don’t kill us.”

“No one is going to kill you,” Eideann said, giving a pointed look to Morrigan who rolled her eyes. Alistair crossed to join Eideann, his look softer.

“If you’re fleeing, you’re going the wrong way. The land in that direction is Blighted. You need to flee northward, to Denerim.”

“Blighted?!” one of the others groaned. “Maker’s breath, what are we going to do?!”

“You’re going,” Eideann said, hauling them to their feet one by one, “to survive. Go northward. Go to Denerim. Do not stop. Warn them the Blight is coming. Warn them they don’t have much time.” They nodded, thanking them all profusely and giving Morrigan a wide berth as they tracked a new path northward and hurried off again. Eideann glanced to Alistair. He could see the wheels turning. “The Dalish and these werewolves are connected,” she said softly. It made him uncomfortable when she did that, because she was usually right.

 _This is all connected,_ she had said once. He shuddered and put up his shield, shaking his head.

“Maybe they just ran afoul of the beasts.”

“Perhaps,” but she did not sound convinced. “The Dalish are meant to be better trackers than that. They would know if werewolves were about, and yet they stayed anyway. Come, we must press on. We’re close now, I can feel it.”

***

They found the first signs of the Dalish where the forests became larger, the trees thicker and more spread apart, and the animals more present. Morrigan found the first trace, and came reeling back as a raven (much to Shale’s consternation) to deliver the news. Halla markings on the bark ahead. Eideann found them quickly enough from there, and then they began tracking in earnest.

It was fascinating to watch her really as she worked. He had never really had the chance to see her properly track. When she went off hunting, she went alone, and returned with a wide variety of whatever she could find. To watch her puzzle out signs, direct Angus where she needed to go next, and march them about the forest in a zigzagging trail of marks he could not discern made him feel mostly helpless. Really, if it had been him alone, they’d be lost, and would die out there, and that would be that.

The elves themselves they found rather abruptly, and quite on accident. A scouting party met them first, Dalish bows drawn back to creaking, and Eideann approached them with hands held up where they could be seen, face schooled to calm.

“Stop right there, outsider,” one near the front said, a woman, clad in elven armor made of bark and the textiles of the woods, dyed mottled greens to keep them camouflaged as they stalked their prey. Eideann did as she was told, but she kept her head held high. “The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere, and quickly.” The woman was not even slightly friendly, which aligned with what Alistair had heard of most Dalish. If she thought their company was an odd one, she did not show it. Or perhaps it was just that her face was so full of their Dalish tattoos that it was hard to read her expression.

“Actually,” Eideann said softly, “I’ve been looking for the Dalish.” The elf narrowed her eyes to deep slits to glare suspiciously at them.

“I find that hard to believe,” she said curtly. “What business could we Dalish possibly have with a group like yours?” Not the tattoos then. She was genuinely uninterested in the members of their merry band. Alistair could not tell if that was a good thing or a bad.

“I am a Grey Warden,” Eideann pressed. “I wish to speak to your leader.” Alistair thought back, wondering if this was how Duncan used to handle such things. He could not recall. He had never really travelled to new places with Duncan, just old places. Since he had been recruited in Denerim, he had spent most of his time at the Warden Compound in training, or with the other Wardens doing reconnaissance before the Blight. Their first big journey had been to Ostagar, and even there he was kept close at hand. He drew a slow breath.

“A Grey Warden?” the Dalish woman said, shaking her head. “How do I know you’re telling the truth.” Alistair saw a small smile quirk Eideann’s lips.

“Many people go about pretending to be Grey Wardens do they?” she asked softly. The Dalish women pursed her lips but conceded the point.

“No, that’s true.” She lowered her bow and the others about her followed suit. Eideann slowly lowered her hands. “In the camp,” the woman instructed, “I suggest you keep your hands to yourself and remember our arrows are still trained on you.” But she did turn then and beckon for them to follow.

They traipsed up the hill after her, making decidedly more noise than she did. Alistair struggled through the branches of the last trees and into the clearing where the camp was located.

What he saw made him stop in his tracks. At least until Sten shoved him forward to make room and he was forced further along.

The Dalish landships were things of legend, but to see one up close was phenomenal. They were like actual ships, but with wheels, large red sails and doors at the sides or back to allow others to enter into the chambers within. The Dalish themselves were tattooed and clad in similar garb to the scouts that had found them, and all were staring at them now, curious and wary and distrusting. To one side of the encampment, a pen fenced in Halla, under the watchful eye of a woman with hair so startlingly white he was sure for a moment she was ancient, but she looked as youthful as he. Statues and ancient ruined arches lay about the camp, like an entire city had stood there once, swallowed now by time and earth, broken to dust or left as shards of all that remained of a long lost world. The architecture looked Tevinter, but there was something strange about it, and he did not know what he thought of that at all.

They crossed the camp without speaking, Eideann at their head and Alistair beside her, led by the Dalish scout. She took them towards the far end of the camp, where two elves stood before one of the landships – aravels Alistair had heard them called once – watching them warily. They both had staffs of twisted whitewood, and both wore Dalish robes. Eideann approached them and gave a small bow.

“I see we have guests,” one of them said, the bald man with the sharp eyes. Angus gave a low growl and those eyes slid to the dog with distaste. “And a hound.” He said it like it was a filthy word. “Who are these strangers, Mithra? I have precious little patience and less time to spend on outsiders today.”

The Dalish scout gave a low bow.

“This woman says she is a Grey Warden, Keeper, and claims to have important business with the People.” He nodded, looking over them thoughtfully, then sighed.

“Ma serannas, Mithra, you may return to your post.”

“Ma nuvenin, Keeper.” The elven woman gave a bow again and then stepped back, turning on her heel and leaving them to it.

“Tell me, stranger,” the Keeper said to them then, his eyes as suspicious as Mithra’s had been. “What business could you possibly have with us? We have our own issues we must deal with, as you can see.” He motioned to his right where a medical clinic had been established. Wounded elves writhed and groaned on cots in the open air, all of them suffering and dying. Then he considered them. “I am Zathrian, the keeper of this clan, its guide and preserver of our ancient lore. And you are?”

“I’m Eideann, pleased to meet you,” she said in reply, and Alistair blinked. Eideann made a few more quick introductions of the rest of them. Zathrien seemed surprised at the courtesy, because he raised an eyebrow at them.

“Manners? From a shemlen? Interesting,” he mused. Then he crossed his arms. “What might be your mission here? Have you come to spread news of the Blight?” He shook his head. “I have already sensed the corruption spreading in the south. The existence of the Blight is not news to me.”

Alistair was a little surprised at that. Could elven mages sense the Blight then? What would that mean? And just how old was this Keeper anyway?

“I would have taken the clan north by now,” Zathrien continued, eyes dark as he considered the Dalish about them, “had we the ability to move. Sadly, as you can see, we do not.”

“Yes,” Alistair said grimly, “it seems like you’ve had your own troubles. What are the odds?” Eideann shot him a dark look and he silenced, withering a little under her glare. She was taking this seriously then. Alistair had the feeling they were being strung along. If Zathrien knew of the Blights, surely he knew of the treaties as well? He must know why they had come.

“I imagine you are here regarding the treaty we signed centuries ago,” Zathrien said then, confirming Alistair’s suspicions. “Unfortunately, we may not be able to live up to the promise we made. This will require some…explanation. Follow me.”

Alistair bristled. Was this payback for the reneged promise of the Dales long ago? Was this some sort of joke. Eideann took it gracefully. She followed the Keeper towards the clinic, eyes like slate. Alistair reined in his frustration and followed.

The clinic was full of bloodied elves, and for a moment with all their own filth they seemed to fit right in. But these elves were suffering, arching up under the weight of a horrible curse which was twisting them into something different from the inside out. They begged for mercy, in common and Dalish both, and writhed in agony, some with tears standing in their eyes. One had lost a whole arm and lay near to death, unmoving except his eyes.

It was horrific.

Zathrien considered them with knowing eyes. It was the werewolves, as the fleeing humans had said.

“The clan came to the Brecilian Forest one month ago, as is our custom when we enter this part of Ferelden,” the Keeper said softly. “We are always wary of the dangers in the forest, but we did not expect the werewolves would be lying in wait for us.” His eyes skimmed his sick people, and he grimaced. “They…ambushed us, and thought we drove the beasts back, much damage was done. Many of our warriors lie dying as we speak.” Alistair considered them again, then swallowed, hard.

Eideann’s eyes were dark, hooded. Zathrien knelt beside one of the warriors, and warm magic flooded over Alistair as healing spread across his body, but it had no effect, did nothing to ease his pain.

“Even with all our magic and healing skill,” the Keeper said, dropping the spell and the magic faded, “we will eventually be forced to slay our brethren to prevent them from becoming beasts. The Blight’s evil must be stopped, but we are in no position to uphold our obligations. I am truly sorry.” He met Eideann’s gaze then, and for a moment they just stared at one another, like they were having a silent conversation. Then Eideann sighed, considering the hunters.

“Is there no way to help your men?” she asked softly. Zathrien grimaced.

“The affliction is a curse,” he explained, leading them away from his people and back to the open space by the aravel where they had first met, “that runs rampant in their blood, bringing great agony and then ultimately either death or a transformation into something monstrous. The only thing that could help them must come from the source of the curse itself, and that…that would be no trivial task to retrieve.”

Eideann considered her companions, who were waiting to see what she would do. Alistair watched her rate their opinions in silence, and then nodded to her when her eyes fell on him.

“We are good at non-trivial tasks,” he said with a very slight smile, hoping it was encouraging. She nodded back, then looked to Zathrien. He was watching their exchange with a guarded look.

“Within the Brecilian Forest dwells a great wolf – we call him Witherfang. It was within him that the curse originated, and through his blood that it has been spread,” the Keeper explained. “If he is killed and his heart brought to me, perhaps I could destroy the curse, but this task has proven too dangerous for us.” He shook his head. “I sent some hunters into the forest a week ago, but they have not returned. I cannot risk any more of my clan.”

“If we help you with this, will you honor the treaties?” Eideann said quietly, and it was a smart move, to be sure. Whether the cure worked or not, Zathrien would have to help them then. Eideann, Alistair knew, did not believe in the supernatural, and was probably doubtful of the cure.

“We would assist with the Blight, of course. And you would have our gratitude…” Zathrien said softly. Eideann gave a nod.

“Then we’ll find this Witherfang for you,” she said. Zathrien nodded, a look of relief passing over his face.

“I must warn you,” he added, “that more than werewolves lurk in the Brecilian Forest.” That was true, Alistair could sense darkspawn to the south. They would need to be careful of that particular obstacle of nothing else. But this, it turned out, was not what Zathrien meant. “It has a history full of carnage and murder, you see,” he told them, weighing heavily on each word. “Where there is so much death, the veil separating the spirit realm from our own becomes thin, allowing spirits to possess things living or dead.” Wonderful, because thin veils had not been enough of an issue for them so far. The veil was so bloody thin everywhere they went, it seemed, Alistair was surprised it had not just worn right away in parts. He sighed. “But if you can indeed help,” Zathrien added, “then I wish you luck.” He turned, but Eideann stepped a little closer, catching his attention.

“Wait, I have a few questions, if I may?”

“Make them quick, if you please,” the Keeper said, agreeing but hesitantly. “I have much to do, here. My apprentice, Lanaya, or Sarel, the clan’s storyteller, could provide you with answers just as easily.” Alistair was pretty sure that if Eideann was asking the questions, that was not true at all.

“This curse…” Eideann began.

“There is not much to say,” Zathrien cut her short. “It stemmed originally from Witherfang, but now any werewolf may infect someone with it.” Alistair saw Eideann’s eyes flash at the interruption, and shifted a little nervously. _Maker, don’t let her lose her temper,_ he prayed unwittingly.

“How did this curse start?” the woman asked grimly.

“That is a long tale I do not have time to tell,” the Keeper said a little curtly. “Ask Sarel about it, if you wish.” Eideann watched with an unreadable expression as the Keeper left them then, standing by the aravel. Then she drew a deep breath.

 _Maker, she’s thinking ‘it’s all connected’ thoughts again,_ Alistair thought grimly. He knew that look. He said nothing, holding his tongue instead, and when she beckoned them all towards the edge of camp, he went in silence. What was safe to say and what was not, he could not tell.

They did not mingle much with the elves that evening, because the Dalish were suspicious of them. Wynne offered to try her hand at healing, but got nowhere. Only Zevran was able to have a few conversations, and even they were guarded. They set up camp a little into the forest, atop a ridge within sight of the Dalish camp, alongside the slow-moving, wide tributary of the Drakon River that made up the bulk of the Brecilian Passage. Ferrymen sometimes went this direction, but there in those woods it was dark and quiet, and there were not boaters today. In fact, it appeared there had been no boaters for a long time. The waters were clogged with reeds, undisturbed.

“Gwaren must be cut off,” Alistair said darkly, hoping it had not yet fallen to the darkspawn. Gwaren was too close to the Blighted Korcari Wilds, and further south where he could still feel the darkspawn.

Eideann sighed, shaking her head.

“At this point, there’s nothing we can do if it is,” she said simply, and then went down to the river, leaving them all behind to set up their camp.

Alistair wandered down after her, careful to give her space, and determined not to look as she removed her armor and stripped down to the Warden quilted tunic. Since these were all bloodied too, she waded straight into the river, up to her waist, before sinking into the water and dunking her head under to scrub the filth from her hair.

“Can I join you?” Alistair asked, wading in a little too, and she nodded and beckoned him in a little. He shed his armor until he stood in his grey silk gambeson too, and then he too entered the water, scrubbing away the stains and filth of the journey.

And it was delightful, for a moment, to do just that. Shortly, they would go into the darker forests, hunting wolves, but for the moment this was enough.

Eideann’s hair was slicked back, still short, and now plastered against her scalp, dripping water down her neck. She was scrubbing at her tunic with a dedication he had not seen, even cold as the water was, and the blood was slowly clouding up around them and floating away downstream.

So practical, as always.

“Did you…did you cut your hair yourself?” he asked suddenly, and she paused, looking up, her eyes sharp and clear, the color of rain, Cousland Blues.

“Yes. With a sword. Duncan thought I was going to kill myself,” she told him flatly. “But Howe would be looking for us, and long hair was in the way.” Then, in a moment of self-consciousness, she reached up with a flash of concern. “It looks horrible, even with Leliana’s help.” He considered her, then shook his head.

“No, I like it,” he said firmly. “I can’t imagine you with long hair.” She was quiet a moment, then she dropped her gaze to the water and her tunic again.

“Neither can I,” she said. “Not anymore.”

He scrubbed at his own tunic awhile, until the worst of the stains were gone, and then he sighed, sinking back into the river and letting the water wash through the fabric and over his skin. He dunked his head back and came up dripping, slicking his hand through his own hair then and grinning. She was watching him, eyes unreadable for once, but as always a low fire burned there.

“Back at Ostagar…”

He froze, meeting her gaze, worried. Had he done something wrong? She blinked.

“Back at Ostagar, I decided something,” That sounded ominous. “I decided that we have to bring down Loghain. I may have to…I may need to…”He watched her struggle for the words a moment, then she grimaced. “Grey Wardens are not meant to have titles, but to combat Loghain, I may need mine. I may have to play a long game, and I don’t want you to think…I wouldn’t like you to think that I’m…what I mean to say is…whatever happens, I’m Eideann, I’m a Grey Warden, and nothing will change that, even if I may have to act otherwise.” He blinked, confused, and she shook her head. “Leliana said I needed to tell you all what I was planning before I did things,” she explained. He waited for more explanation, and she shifted, sinking into the water a little more. “I’ve thought about it, as much as I can, and I think even if we can get Arl Eamon’s aid, and I don’t even know if we can, there’s really only one way to challenge Loghain. That’s politically. The only one who can challenge a Teyrn is a Teyrn. I will have to be Teyrna Eideann Cousland when we face him, and to even get that far, I will need to play my cards close. When we get there – “ At least she said when, not if – “I need you to trust me. I may do some things you do not like.” He blinked, but then slowly nodded.

“You’re the Warden-Commander of Ferelden,” he said, “and if you want to be Teyrna Cousland too, fine. I trust no one else with so much power.”

“You should not trust me with it…” she said softly. “Ever since Soldier’s Peak…ever since Sophia Dryden…” He paused.

“Maker! Is that what this is about?! We are _not_ Sophia Dryden!” The sharpness of his voice surprised even him, so the shock in her eyes was expected. “We are trying to end a Blight. We must do whatever we have to do to stop the Blight,” he said fiercely. “Sophia Dryden was summoning demons to battle a king to make herself the queen. We are summoning armies to battle the Blight. We are nothing like her.” He had never been so sure of anything in his life.

But she was not convinced. She sank down until her face was all that still stuck out from the river, and closed her eyes.

“I just worry that sometimes I am overstepping my bounds.”

“Kill the Archdemon first,” he said frankly, “and then we will worry about overstepping our bounds, yes?”

They were silent then, soaking in the water, feeling cleaner than they had in weeks. And he watched her, shaking his head, amazed she had carried such doubts all the way south from Soldier’s Peak with her.

She sat up a bit in the water, dripping and damp, her eyes bright and fierce. And for a moment it took his breath away to consider her. He caught himself following the line of her jaw down her throat to where it disappeared beneath the silk collar of her tunic. And then he caught her watching him. He grinned, nervously, sheepishly, and sighed.

“So,” he said quietly, forcing himself to meet her eyes, “ all this time we’ve spent together…you know, the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us…will you miss it once it’s over?” She watched him a moment, her eyes baring his soul as they had done the last time he had tried to speak earnestly with her. But she gave an ever-so-slight smile and sighed.

“It makes me tear up just thinking about it,” she said, her voice thick with…something. What was that?

He liked the Eideann that played this game. He liked the Eideann that laughed and smiled. He liked the Eideann that could stand before him, all woman, all clever, all skilled at everything she did. He felt a heat in his cheeks and smiled.

“There’ll be no more running for our lives, no more darkspawn, and ugh, no more camping in the woods,” he laughed, glancing up at their newest camp a moment before looking back to her with a fading smile. He forced himself to form the words, to say it before he couldn’t. There was no way of knowing what would happen in the future, only the now. He had to say this now. “I know this might sound strange – “ his voice was halting, slow, a little strained. He cursed the Maker for his inability to make this sound genuine – “considering we haven’t known each other for very long,but I’ve come to care for you. A great deal.” He was struggling with the words, but to the Void if he planned to stop now, it did not matter how red he got. She was watching him with a quiet gaze, curious, her lips slightly parted, damp from the water. Oh, he wanted. He swallowed. “I think maybe it’s because we’ve been through so much together, I don’t know. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Fooling myself.” _Maker, don’t let me be fooling myself. And don’t let me make a fool of myself either._ He fixed her beautiful blue gaze with his own, the amber eyes. Not Maric’s eyes. His were from his mother. “Am I?” he asked in a quiet voice, and instantly hated how vulnerable it made him sound suddenly. “Fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever…feel the same way about me?”

She said nothing. And the whole world was darker for it. He stood on a knife’s edge in that moment, cursing himself for being stupid. Cursing himself for letting this moment have happened at all. He should have been stronger, held back. She had enough to think of, enough to deal with, and now him too?

And then she licked her damp lips, and drew a breath.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, her voice thick with the Highever brogue. “It’s too soon to say.”

_That’s not a no._

There was a fire in her eyes again, a low smolder like the burning of deep, deceptive embers that threatened to melt him. He tilted his head a little and reached, under the water, for her. And her hand found his in the depths, cool and surprisingly small in his hand, and closed tight about his fingers as it had at Ostagar when they had looked out across the world and made that secret stand together.

“Well,” he said, carefully drawing her closer to him through the water, “is it too soon for this?” He bent his head, careful and slow. She could stop him. She should stop him. She did not stop him.

Their lips met, and it was like Andraste singing to the Maker. She tasted like spices, like strength, like joy. She tasted like Highever, the Storm Coast and the rain. Her lips were soft, too soft almost, and fit his mouth like they were molded for one another. He was not breathing, and he did not care. He pulled her closer, and her arms crept around his neck as she kissed him back.

And Maker, sweet Maker…

_This is the song you sung at creation, surely._

He drew back a little, half unwilling, and apprehensive, and she blinked at him, her chest rising and falling under the grey silk like she was remembering to breathe too. Then she caught her lip between her teeth.

“I…don’t know,” she said a little breathlessly, and he heard the soft laughter in her voice, and the nervousness too. He backed away then, gently releasing her hand, but she did not move away. She was watching him, eyes pools of fire, and her lips curved ever so slightly at him. “I need more testing to be sure.” He could not help it. His own lips curled in a half smile, sly and coy, and he shook his head with laughter as her eyes sparkled.

“Well,” he said, finally finding his voice again, “I’ll have to arrange that then, won’t I?” It was so simple an idea, and it still stole his breath away again. He felt a little weak. “Maker’s breath,” he sighed, shaking his head, and she gave a soft laugh at him, pushing her drying hair back out of her face again. He considered her, wet from the river, her eyes shining, her lips slightly swollen from kissing, and her soft smile as she watched him, and he shook his head again. “You’re beautiful,” he told her quietly, and she softened. He swelled with the acknowledgement of it affecting her so. _I am a lucky man,_ he thought, and she carefully looked away, eyelashes hiding her gaze a little.

He heard a noise and saw Zevran standing up on the shore giving him a pointed look. He cleared his throat, glancing back to Eideann and trying to regain his composure. When he spoke, his voice sounded a little hoarse. “Now, let’s get back to what we were doing before I forget why we are here,” he suggested and she laughed before following him from the water. That laugh was clear and soft and beautiful.

He would have to tell her the truth, and soon, or she would never forgive him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran begins to doubt Eideann; Eideann learns that the problem is not as simple as it appears; Wynne tells a story; Sidonie and Carver realize they're still short on funds; Eideann and Alistair get no warning when the camp is attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome. :)

Zevran scowled as he peered into the forest ahead, wishing for towers and filthy streets full of drunkards and beggars, and wanting nothing more than the scent of fresh leather hanging over him. Instead, he was examining the accuracy of calling Ferelden the land of the Dog Lords.

That was not a comment on the beautiful and fearsome Grey Warden who led them, though she was herself possessed of a rather large dog that never stopped following her except when it thought it was getting food from somewhere else. No, this was a comment on the fact that Ferelden’s history was peppered with accounts of werewolves and here they were again, hunting them down again.

A normal wolf was bad enough, all snappy teeth and snarls. But a person who had become a wolf? He would not have believed it if not for the one that they had killed the other day.

Eideann Cousland was showing how good she was in the woods again, which made him miserable because he was the elf, so wasn’t it his job to do this? Show off. But she was very good in the woods, and there was something to her in the wilderness that he expected would vanish when they entered a city or town: a resolute simplicity that was easily eclipsed by her political side.

He smiled slightly to himself at the thought of catching her and Alistair, lips locked and both dripping water in the center of the river for all to see. She was not nearly so unaffected and aloof as she liked to pretend. No, he suspected this Eideann Cousland to be a woman of intense passions when she thought no one looking.

Alistair had told him while they sat on watch that evening that she was known as the Blue Flame across Ferelden. It was fitting, if a little ambitious. The stories they told of her, beating suitors in competitions of arms and the like…they made him laugh. He could almost see it. Almost. But he suspected they were a little more legend than truth.

Until he caught sight of that sharp ferocity that lit in her eyes sometimes, and then he wondered.

The Brecilian Forest was a tangle of ancient trees, and the Dalish Keeper had said that spirits and worse haunted its mossy paths. Zevran had never seen the Dales, though his mother had been Dalish, but he rather imagined that the forests in the south, sisters of this one, were as tall, as knotted, and as foreboding. He had heard tales of the Emerald Graves, a tree planted for each fallen elven warrior until a great forest sprung up to mark their passing, and it felt sad and hollow. This too was a sad sort of forest.

There were ruins, or the hints of them. The remains of arches climbed from the thick mulch of the forest floor, and pillars lay felled and covered in moss and foliage. Once, long ago, this had been a city. Did the city come before the trees? Or did they grow at the same time.

Eideann drew them up short, listening, and her swords rang from their sheaths at the same time as Alistair’s. Zevran was quick to draw his bow then, because when two Grey Wardens both drew swords, there was definitely something ominous about, and most likely darkspawn.

He hated darkspawn. Their path across the Bannorn headed south had been clear for the most part. The horde itself had vanished, and he had not gone to Ostagar where the Wardens claimed the darkspawn were loitering behind the lines of the Blight. He had been lucky enough to avoid them so far.

“What is it?” he heard Wynne call, and bristled as Eideann twisted her swords in her hands.

“Trouble.”

It was darkspawn. Maker, they were monstrous things, all sharp jaws and roars and filthy tainted hands. They appeared over the ridge, snarling and fierce, and with them a giant purple beast with twisting horns and beady eyes that reached to the ground to hurl stones their way. It charged them, and Zevran moved, but the Wardens stood their ground. He watched as they flung themselves up and about, silverite blades flashing in the dim light that filtered through the canopy. The darkspawn roared and toppled, and Zevran watched, a little awed, at the ease with which Alistair and Eideann had dispatched it. They’d seen one of them before then.

He peppered the other darkspawn with arrows, keeping cover behind a great tree. One even died, and he was proud of himself for being helpful. The others had to face down Morrigan who froze them with a curse, and Sten who shattered the ice sculptures to pieces.

Morrigan was watching Sten with a raised eyebrow, clearly surprised that the plan had gone off so well. Eideann kicked at the darkspawn corpses, grimacing.

“Stragglers,” she said after a moment, and Alistair nodded. “Where is the Maker-forsaken horde?”

“The Archdemons spend most of their time underground. I imagine we will see it surface again when it finds another exit from the Deep Roads.” Eideann looked grim, shaking her head.

“We need to hurry. We’re taking too long.”

So they did not stop for lunch or anything. In fact, they kept on, until they reached a small confluence of the tangled rivers that wound through the forest undergrowth. Someone had set plank bridges linking one side to the other via a small island in the center. Eideann led them across it with all the wariness of a field mouse stalked by a cat.

And for good reason. The werewolves were on them in moments, blocking the way forward. At their head was a wolf with bronze fur, and he snarled at them, drawing up into Eideann’s face until Zevran was sure he would eat her. Eideann faced him down, and where she found that courage he would never know, because he was shaking in his boots.

“The watchwolves have spoken truly,” he snapped at their fearsome leader, his maw a row of jagged teeth and eyes sharp and cold and filled with a terrible rage. “The Dalish send a human of all things to repay us for our attack. What bitter irony.”

 _They were once human,_ Zevran thought, and filed the information away. When he would get to use it, he did not know, but he had made a living as an assassin collecting information on targets and he would not stop now. His bowstring creaked in his hand.

“I am not servant of the Dalish,” Eideann said carefully, her voice measured.

“Do you take us for fools?!” the beast roared, and Eideann closed her eyes slightly, raising her chin. That was the most show of discomfort Zevran had seen from her yet. “No doubt the old Keeper himself sent you! You speak to Swiftrunner! Go back. Tell them we will gladly see them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay.” Swiftrunner’s chest was heaving with his breathing, a lean and dangerous weapon of claws and teeth and speed. Eideann fixed the wolves with a look.

“I would prefer to talk to _you_ ,” she said calmly. “I mean you no harm.” Zevran narrowed his eyes. Surely they were here for exactly that reason, to fight werewolves? They had promised to help the Dalish after all.

He thought of his mother, a face he never remembered, and grimaced. What was the Warden’s game now? Sometimes, Eideann was so vague and nebulous he could not follow her logic until something was done.

Not that he blamed her for pausing. After all, these were not just werewolves, the mindless beasts the Keeper had spoken of. They could speak, think, and had names. They were more dangerous than simple wild beasts. Perhaps Eideann was coming up with a new plan?

Beside him, Zevran saw Sten bristle, and that put him on edge too.

“Was it not Zathrien who sent you?” Swiftrunner growled. “He wishes only our destruction! Never to _talk_.” Eideann’s eyes narrowed.

Zevran shifted a little, and one of the wolves snarled, so he froze.

“Tell us of Witherfang,” Zevran said sharply. Eideann did not look at him. Swiftrunner snorted.

“Witherfang is the first and the eldest. This forest is _his_ home. And you will never see him if you are lucky,” the beast snarled. Eideann crossed her arms.

“You should warn him that the Dalish want his heart,” she said quietly. Zevran glared at the back of her head. What was she doing?

“Warden…” She ignored him.

“Run from this forest while you can,” Swiftrunner said in his terrible snarl. “Run to the Dalish and tell them they are doomed.” Eideann sighed, drawing her sword with ease.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she said, “but neither can we retreat.” For a moment neither of them moved, and then the beast shook his head wildly.

“I do not wish to fight you either, but we cannot trust you,” he glared. Zevran knocked an arrow, but no battle commenced. Instead Swiftrunner backed up a few steps, and his comrades turned and fled back into the woods. “The forest has eyes,” he warned them, and then he too turned and vanished into the undergrowth. Eideann watched them go, sword lowered, and then she sheathed it.

“What are you dong?” Zevran demanded, and Eideann fixed him with a look.

“Don’t you think it a little strange,” she said darkly, “that Zathrien refuses to tell us more of this curse his people suffer, that he refuses to tell us how it began, and that here we find not the mindless beasts he told us to hunt but creatures that are thinking and speaking?”

“We have to bring back the heart,” Zevran said darkly. “ _Bella_ , you are making me doubt you.”

“Then we are at last on even footing, my assassin friend,” she said flatly, hardly friendly at all. “Zathrian said he might be able to cure it with the heart, not that he definitely would. Perhaps these werewolves know more. They suffer from this curse the same as anyone.” Zevran felt a bubble of anger and wondered if it was too late to try and kill her before he recalled his vow and sighed, turning away.

“You will get them all killed.”

“Do we have time for a different option?” Sten asked simply. Eideann gave him a dark look.

“Do we have time to find the best solution, to save the most lives, you mean?” she asked pointedly. “Would you rather the Dalish on our side, or the werewolves?”

“We are _not_ betraying them!” Zevran spat, thinking of the dying elves back at the camp. “You _promised_ to help them!”

“I would rather we have the support of both. I need an army to battle the Blight, and the more people we can turn to our side, the better. The way through this may yet be to slay Witherfang and use his heart to cure the Dalish, but if there is another way, we should make an informed choice.” Eideann sighed, shaking her head, and then motioned for Alistair. “There are darkspawn further west. Go find out how close?” He nodded and stalked off. “Leliana, we need a campfire. This place is defensible for the moment. We will stop and rest awhile.” The bard nodded as Alistair had and went to gather wood. “Sten, Zevran, go and find us something to eat.” Their horses were left with the Dalish where the knotted forests would not founder them or snare them. Zevran stalked off then, grumpy and glaring, almost as dour as Sten. “Shale, see if you can’t stomp down a firepit for us in the center of this island.” At least he was not responsible for that task.

He meandered through the woods feeling unsettled at her words. The idea that Eideann Cousland would make a promise and then so quickly go back on it –

She had not promised. She had said she would do what she could. But she had never promised. He felt a little ill. The elves would pay if she was wrong, pay with their lives.

***

Zevran was on edge, and she knew that it was because he felt ill at ease about her current plan. But she also knew what she felt in her heart: something was not right, there was more at work than they had been told, and the elves were not the only victims there. The assassin could believe her to be going back on her word if he would, but she had never made any promises to Zathrian and the elves. She had merely said she would do what she could. Either way, she intended to help them all, if possible.

Meeting Swiftrunner had changed everything. They were not hunting mere wild beasts, not anymore. Perhaps there was an element of the wild to the werewolves, but Swiftrunner had retreated when he did not need to, and they had once been human. Part of them still was.

 _How does a werewolf curse even begin?_ she caught herself thinking as she helped Sten skin the fennec he and Zevran had brought back. The Qunari had tried his best to do the work, then given up in frustration and left her too it, annoyed at the “prevalence of furry creatures in this country”.

Wynne was sitting beside her, bundled in a cloak of thick wool that they had brought from their camp. She was staring at the flames with pursed lips, thinking. Eideann yanked the fennec fur free and sighed, wiping her brow with the back of her hand and then looking up. She caught Wynne staring and blinked, then shrugged. Wynne rose to join her, avoiding the gore from the fennec.

“How do _you_ think this curse happened?” Eideann asked her, beginning the next stage of the preparation. Wynne shook her head, looking back to the fire.

“I don’t know. The Veil is thin here, that Keeper was correct. If it was magic…it must be…but not the sort I have heard of before.”

“It is simple,” came Morrigan’s curt tones across the fire. “Just as it is the power of men to shape the Fade, it is the power of spirits to shape the living world. A spirit has shaped their forms into this. I suspect that Witherfang the elves spoke of is not a wolf at all.” Eideann narrowed her gaze, looking at Wynne, who simply shook her head.

“I have nothing better,” the old woman said after a moment, “as much as I dislike admitting it.” Morrigan gave a small smirk where she was tending the cooking pot, dropping a few leaves of herbs into the water that she was boiling. Eideann set about dicing the meat.

“Can spirits change our human forms? Is that really how that happens?” she asked quietly. Wynne pursed her lips.

“Abominations are a fair example. And if the Chantry is to believed then the darkspawn themselves are another.”

“Whatever the darkspawn are, they are not twisted by spirits. That is definitely something different.” Eideann was sure of that. She could feel them in her head, far in the distance somewhere south. Alistair had not yet returned, but she was certain he would. The Fade…well that felt different.

They told tales of the Brecilian Forest: it was wild and alive, its creatures and greenery twisted and changed because of the torn Veil. Could it really be that simple? That the world of spirits and the world of the living really did interact in such a way? That one corrupted the other in some form? That they could enact their will upon the denizens within each.

She looked at Wynne, saved by a spirit, looking no different than she presumably had before. It was hard to think on it then, and she did not have the magical acumen to do more. Either way, it did not matter. Not yet. She would break this curse, but she had to know more of it, and she was determined to do so now regardless.

Her eyes slid to Zevran, seated on a branch with his back to them all, keeping watch on the forest. He was angry with her. He honestly believed she would leave the elves to their fate. He may be an assassin, as cheery about murder as he was about all else, but he was an elf, and the Dalish were his mother’s people. The Dalish were all that was left of the elves that had been given the lands of southern Orlais. The Dales had been their second homeland, the gift of Andraste herself in honor of their sacrifice in siding with her. And then it had been taken, seized by humans, destroyed as they claimed the ancient elven home of Arlathan had been when Tevinter invaded long ago. The Dalish were desperate keepers of knowledge, struggling to retain the old ways. They kept their distance from humans, distrusted their intent. She did not blame them.

But that did not mean that the Dalish were right. In this…there had to be a way to save both.

“I must,” Wynne said suddenly beside her. “What does being a Grey Warden mean to you?” Eideann was tired, and that was a philosophical sort of question that she had been trying to answer all day. She sighed, unable to think of a worthy answer after all the struggles of the past few days. Once she would have known, before all this began, that being a Grey Warden was doing what the rest of the world would not. But she thought of Crestwood and the people she had doomed to die there. She thought of the Tower and the mages dead in the halls alongside the Templars. She thought of the elves dying in the glade back at the Dalish camp. She thought of Flemeth and the price Eideann had paid for the debt of her very life. The answer was never so simple.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, and gathered up the meat to dump in the pot that Morrigan was brewing. “Does it have to main something?” The expectations were such a mess, she did not have the patience to deal with it. She would do what must be done, but it would be so much easier if people did not insist on watching her go about the work. She rose to put the meat into the water to cook, and Morrigan sniffed, nodding her thanks. Then Eideann went to rejoin Wynne, wiping the worst from her bloody hands with her cleaning cloth and sheathing her knife after a quick wipe of that too.

“I just wanted to know what you thought being a Grey Warden was all about,” Wynne said, watching as she knelt by the small steam to wash the rest of the blood from her hands. “Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others, about serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men.” She had recognized Eideann’s weariness then, and the tension that Zevran had brought to her decision.

“You mean to say,” Eideann said flatly, “that I serve as a protector.” She rose and wiped her hands dry on the gray silk of her tunic. There was no question in it. She already knew that answer. But it was the actual serving that was hard. Wynne beckoned for her to sit beside her, and watched with kindly eyes as she did so.

“Have you heard much about the Grey Wardens of old?” she asked gently. Eideann crossed her arms, gazing into the firelight.

“I know they soared through the skies on griffons,” she said in return. Wynne chuckled.

“Griffons,” she sighed. “Alas, that seems to be the only thing people remember from the tales: the mighty flying mounts that bore the Grey Wardens into battle.”

“They were Joined,” Eideann said quietly, as Angus came to flop down across her feet. He did not like hunting wolves any more than she did. A little too close to home perhaps, for them both. Wynne smiled warmly, her thin lips a broad line that curved at the corners. She reached down to pat Angus’s head.

“It was said,” she continued quietly, “that watching the Wardens ride in on their white griffons was enough to rouse a weary heart and put the dance back in the step of an old man.” She had a distant look now, like when Bryce Cousland had told her stories of King Maric riding against the Orlesians, rising as if from the dead on the streets of Gwaren. “The Grey Wardens were powerful, feared, and respected. But they also inspired the common people.” She smiled a little to Eideann who had turned to listen. “I remember a tale that was told to me many years ago.”

Someone shifted across the fire, and it was Leliana who was sinking into a cross-legged seat to listen. A bard was always wishing for new tales. Wynne smiled to her too, and even Morrigan had turned her head slightly to listen, though she would never have owned up for it. Eideann had the peculiar sensation she was in a knitting circle or one of her mother’s salons, and wondered if it was all a dream and she would wake up. But she sensed something tainted in the distance, and knew that was the real lie.

“Does the story have griffons in it?” she asked with a smile. Leliana stifled a smirk.

“Maker’s mercy,” Wynne sighed, “it’s like talking to a child.” But she continued anyway, settling back a little in her seat atop a fallen log. “Yes,” she said flatly, “there are griffons in this story.” Leliana leaned forward, smiling, and Eideann bowed her head slightly like a chastised little girl. She had not done that since she was twelve. Wynne’s face was serious now. “The Blight had ravaged the land for months, and the armies of the great kings had amassed for one last stand,” she began, and Eideann felt a sense of foreboding settle over them all. “As the sun burst through the clouds and boiled and churned in the dark sky above, it illuminated a vast, seething hoard of darkspawn with the Archdemon at its head.” Wynne considered them all with narrowed, watchful eyes. Morrigan stirring the stew pot was the only sound for a moment. “And it was then,” Wynne said, “when courage seemed to fail and all lost to death and despair that the Grey Wardens came. The arrived with the beating of winds like mighty war drums and stood before the armies of men.”

“What happened then?” Leliana asked quietly, enraptured. Eideann swallowed. _They all died, of course,_ she caught herself thinking, and immediately drew herself up short.

“The Grey Wardens, grim and fearless, marched forth, ever between the men and the encroaching darkspawn.” How many would that have taken? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Maker…Eideann wished she had that number with her now. “They formed a shield of their own bodies, and held that line until the Archdemon was dead and the last darkspawn lay trampled in the dirt. And then, demanding neither reward nor recognition for their sacrifice – “ _In death, sacrifice…_ \- “the Grey Wardens departed.” Leliana was not even blinking. Morrigan shook her head slightly, stirring the pot again. Eideann closed her eyes. “When the clouds finally rolled back and the sun shone full upon the Blighted ground,” Wynne said softly, “the great kings knew that they had lost no men, and none of their blood had been spilled.” They were quiet a moment again, and then Eideann tipped her head back, staring up into the stars between the trees, trying to make out the constellations above.

“This story isn’t about a specific battle,” she said quietly. She could almost feel Wynne smiling slightly beside her.

“This is a tale about no battle the Grey Wardens have fought,” she said quietly in return, “and yet about them all.” _Even this one, where Alistair and I alone must stand between the darkspawn and the armies of men._ It made her feel hollow inside. “They have always defended us from the darkspawn, taking losses so we do not have to,” Wynne said, her voice a little sad now. People may have forgotten over the centuries, but nothing has changed. This knowledge has been blessing and burden to Grey Wardens past. And now it shall be your blessing. And your burden.” Eideann looked away, her hands finding Angus’s fur unseeing, tangling in the mabari pelt. Her dog gave a low whine. Wynne sighed. “As a Grey Warden, you are a guardian of men, and you guard them because their continued existence is more important than you are. Thus it is you who serves, not they.” There was the sound of someone approaching through the trees and Eideann looked up to catch Alistair’s return. He set aside his shield and sword and took a seat himself across from them before the fire, looking tired and worn.

“I will keep that in mind,” Eideann said quietly, glancing back at Wynne. The old woman licked her lips, shaking her head.

“A good king – a true king who cares for his land – uses his power to rule firmly but fairly. He serves his people first and foremost. The king who does not do this, who believes that he is entitled to his power, who abuses it and uses it for his own means, is a tyrant.”

“Many kings are tyrants,”Eideann said, narrowing her eyes. She knew these lessons from her childhood. She knew these lessons from the mouth of her mother, her father, old Nan. She knew too that this was what she lived by, more than anything else, the delicate balance of using your power for good and nor for evil. Wynne considered her.

“If you live apart from others, you may do what you wish,” she said gently. “But if you have power, influence, and strength, your every action will be as a drop of water in a clear, still pond.” She watched Morrigan begin to dole out the stew into bowls and pass it around. “The drop causes ripples, and ripples spread. Think of how far they will go, how wide they will become. How will they affect the pond? But I’ve lectured enough for today. I should stop before I wear out my welcome.” Eideann shook her head, then reached to take her bowl from Morrigan, and one for Wynne. The elderly mage took it graciously with a soft thank you.

“I must live with the consequences of my own decisions,” Eideann said after a moment of silence when they were all eating. “I must make the best choices I can and live with the results, come what may. We get no second chances. Even if it costs me everything I am, to save others I must make that sacrifice. Those who seek power because they are afraid of the alternative, those who ask others to die in their place because they themselves will not make that sacrifice…those are the true tyrants. And right now, one of those such tyrants sits on Ferelden’s throne. I cannot raise the army we must have to end the Blight with him there. I cannot raise the army I need if I choose the easy way out all the time. It would be easy to kill these werewolves, to go forth and slaughter them all as beasts, ignore that they can talk and think, ignore that they believe themselves cursed. But to do so is wrong. And to do so on the chance that it may help save the others is doubly wrong. I cannot take that simple path. I must try to save them all. Somehow…”

She rose then putting some distance between herself and the others, and eating in silence.

Maker, she was getting sick of strew, and fennec stew was the worst. But it was better than nothing, and warm, and whatever herbs Morrigan had used had given the whole thing the flavor it lacked.

Zevran was watching her, but when he saw her considering him, he turned away. He had still not forgiven her then, but at least he was willing to try. That was something.

_I have joined the Grey Wardens to save Ferelden. It will probably cost me my life. It does not matter anymore what Eideann thinks or what Eideann wants. Eideann died at Highever. There is only the Warden._

Maker, it was a sobering thought.

***

“I swear to the Maker, Gamlen, you either stop this or I will drown you in your own piss-ale!” Sidonie blinked, letting the door shut gently behind her, and stared at the scene across the hall. Gamlen stood arms crossed by the fireplace, in his hand a scrap of battered paper.

 _Andraste’s holy knickers, another one?!_ Living with Gamlen was an endless stream of bills and debt collectors. Meeran had allowed them to keep some of the proceeds from their jobs, since Sidonie and Carver had proven themselves more useful than most of their company. Sidonie had even started to use small amounts of magic where it was appropriate. The Templars were distracted with the refugees that continued to flood the Gallows, and Sidonie operated in a different sphere, in Darktown and off along the Wounded Coast where there were no Templars to see. Most of their jobs were handling raiders, the pirates that smuggled along the coast from the Waking Sea. Others involved dealing with the slavers that operated up and down the coast, especially now that the Blight was causing chaos and mayhem along the Ferelden sea-coast.

Carver was standing with his hands on his hips, angry in the same way that made his brows knit together. He was a tone redder than usual, eyes narrow and angry.

“It’s none of your business!” Gamlen shot back. “You’re here by my hospitality, and you’ll mind your own business, _nephew_. If Leandra hadn’t gone and – !”

“Uncle Gamlen, leave Mother out of this! This is _your_ gambling.” Gamlen glared at Carver, crumpling the paper in both hands.

“I am not the only Amell who liked to gamble,” Gamlen grumbled, and stalked off into his bedchamber, slamming the door shut. Sidonie raised an eyebrow, and Carver noticed her presence then. He crossed his arms.

“What now?” Sidonie asked, crossing to the table and twisting a seat under her with a finesse she had practiced for years. Carver paced across the room, pent up frustration causing him to undertake any physical action to let it out.

“He owes money again. He wanted half my wages for the month to make the downpayment! What does it spend it all on! I can’t give him more! We’ll starve!” he said angrily. His greatsword was jutting over his shoulder, ominous and well-tended, the worn handle showing just how much of his life he had spent holding it aloft. Carver’s hands were callused and rough from that work. Sidonie’s were similar from her staff.

“Probably spends it on bad card bets and whores. I’ll go by the Rose,” she said grimly, recalling the name of the gaudy establishment in Hightown where people blew money and prostitutes blew them. “Maybe they’ll put a block on his account.”

“Are you joking? They’re making a fortune from him. And even if we did, he’d just spend it at the Hanged Man instead.”

“I don’t suppose he could trip over a pot of gold on his way home in a drunken stupor next time?” Sidonie sighed darkly. She leaned her elbows on the table and drew forth the medallion from her pocket. Her eyes considered it a moment. “What about this? Could we maybe sell it?” She held it up and Carver considered it, then shook his head.

“You could try. I’m not touching the damn thing.” Sidonie sighed, then pushed herself up and pocketed the amulet again.

“Fine. I will. If it buys us bread, it will be worth it. Go through the rest of our things, see if there is anything else we can afford to sell?” Carver gave her a dark look.

“And where are you going?” he asked as she made her way back to the door.

“To see Aveline. Maybe she can lock Uncle Gamlen up for the night. At least he can’t run up more debts in prison.” Carver sniffed, fixing her with a flat look.

“Knowing him, he could,” he shot back. “I’ll wait for Mother. Stay safe,” he told her, and a flash of concern was on his face. “I don’t like this place…”

“I’ll be fine, Carver,” Sidonie said, turning back to face him and giving him her most earnest look.

“I just worry. The Templars…”

“I solemnly swear to only do little spells where Templars can see.”

“It isn’t funny,” he said back, shaking his head at her. “If you get caught, then they’ll put you in the Gallows if you’re lucky. If you aren’t…” He trailed off. Sidonie pushed away the fear and let a few small flickers of fire dance from her fingertips and dissipate into nothing. Fire to make the emotions go away. “After Bethany…be careful, Sister.” Sidonie nodded, the laughter gone from her voice.

“I promise, Carver.”

That was a promise she knew she could not keep, not being a mage in Kirkwall, not being a mercenary indentured to Meeran and the Red Iron. But it made Carver feel better to hear it, and that was important too. She sighed, opening the door then, and bade him farewell before stepping off into the sandstone streets of Lowtown where the filth was thick in the air and the whole place rang with a cacophony of nonsense.

She would go first to the Hanged Man. Maybe they would have some work, and somewhere there might buy the damn amulet. Someone had to. It was all that she had left.

***

It was black and looming, eyes shining in the darkness, spikes and purple flame in a sky of eerie green that made her think of the Fade, and that piercing roar burst through everything she was and threatened to rip her asunder. She shot awake, sitting up fast, and threw aside the covers, her blade coming to her hand as though summoned.

She was not alone.

Alistair stood in a similar state, dressed only in the quilted tunic of the Wardens, armor inside his tent. He looked at her, eyes wide.

“You’re awake!” he started, chest rising and falling. He had his shield on his arm. “Did you…did you feel it too?” She nodded and rose to her feet, out of her tent, alert and ready.

Alistair crossed to her, setting his back to her own. “It was the like Archdemon saw us! _Saw us!_ What does that mean?!” Eideann shook her head.

There was…something…something off. Something wrong.

And then she realized what it was. She couldn’t sense anything. _Nothing_. That was not the way it had been, not since Ostagar, and her blood ran cold. Alistair grimaced.

“I think…” Eideann silenced him with an arm, listening, her hearing prickling in the darkness. A low hiss, like a gasp or the sound of something rasping against silk. He froze. “Wait! Did you hear that?” A low hiss, this one a true hiss like a snake, or something worse.

“GET UP NOW!” Eideann shouted to the others as Angus began to bark.

And then it was too late to do anything else.

Her sword blade connected with the first of the creatures that appeared in their midst, black shadows that rose from the night, their cries sharp and painful like a lesser version of the Archdemon’s shriek.

Shrieks. That was what they were called.

They were all over, surrounding their campsite, closing in on all of their companions. Morrigan had morphed into a spider. Sten was howling something in Qunlat. Wynne and Leliana were back to bacjk, one shooting off spells and the other arrows. Zevran had forsaken his bow and gone to his blades, whirling through the campsite. Angus tore through the shriek by Eideann, and it hurtled to the ground with a roar that hurt her head. Eideann silenced it with a sword through its sharp mouth.

They phased in an out of existence, appearing to lash out at them with claws and fangs without warning. Eideann stepped around Alistair who was defending her back, and shook her head.

“How did they find us?!” she cried.

“I don’t know!” he called back, slashing through one with his sword and earning a sharp scream from the darkspawn in return.

Shale came hurtling through, almost taking them both out as it slammed its great stone fists into the ground and caught another shriek.

One by one they fell, a great circle of darkness and twisted, blight-ridden forms. And then, finally, they were all gone. The hissing had stopped, the weird shrieking howls vanished. Eideann focused, and she could feel the taint. She knew she could feel it again, because she could sense Alistair, ever so slightly, and that was something she could use to test.

She waited a few moments, even so, and he did too, both on edge and both waiting.

“No more,” he finally said, and she nodded, sheathing her weapons carefully, shaken. To be so suddenly under attack…and the Archdemon seeing them? How? Where had they come from? And how had they been so hidden? Even hidden the taint should be thick on them, they should have been able to sense them coming.

Nothing…

She shot Alistair a nervous look.

“The Archdemon…the dream,” she said, warily, and hated how shaken her voice sounded. He swallowed.

“I got the feeling at the end, there, that it saw us. Was aware of us. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Dreams are the world of the Fade,” she said quietly. He had no answers, so he simply nodded. Eideann swallowed the bile rising in her mouth and grimaced.

“It could have just been my imagination, I suppose,” Alistair offered hesitantly. “What do you think?” If he was looking for answers from her, she also had none to give. She grimaced.

“I think that Archdemon needs to die. Quickly,” she said fiercely, aware that her hands were shaking. Shrieks? What the hell were they anyway, definitely darkspawn, but how had she not sensed them? How had Alistair not sensed them? After they had been so careful…

Alistair sighed.

“Well, short of waltzing through the whole horde and tapping it on the shoulder, I’m not sure how to do that,” he admitted. “But killing the Archdemon is the general plan, so good to have you on board.” His quirky grin faded and he stared at the shrieks a moment before glancing up with a look like he had swallowed something sour. “One thing’s for certain, though. It’s official: this is a Blight.”

“Good job we’re raising an army then,” Eideann said curtly in return, turning to rip up the pegs holding her tent erect. Alistair grimaced and then began doing the same on his own tent.

“I guess it’s true what Duncan said. We can sense them, and they can sense us. This camp isn’t safe anymore.”

“It _will_ be difficult to sleep here now,” Wynne admitted, still staring at the shrieks. None of them had ever seen anything like it before. Unless…maybe at Ostagar…

Morrigan gave a sniff across the way, lighting the campfire again with a splurt of magic so they could all see what they were doing. “What will the send next?” she said angrily, “Darkspawn tax collectors?”

Oh, if only they could be so lucky.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann crosses paths with a dying werewolf; Sten shares his discomfort about being in the Brecilian Forest; Eideann and Zevran come to an understanding; the group encounters the Elder Tree; Captain Isabela sets her sights on Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

The heavy weight of history hung over the limbs of twisted trees on the day they first encountered the Slyvans. They were trees, possessed by spirits, wild and enraged. Eideann had never in her entire life believed she would have to fight a tree. Their roots pulled free of the earth, leaving swaths of damaged turf in their wake, crushed plants and battered leaves and upturned soil.

Eideann was nursing a number of bruises from being beaten with solid wood for getting too close, and Sten had taken a branch about the head and was squinting a little. Alistair and Zevran, still wounded from their battle with Flemeth, had both managed to keep enough distance to avoid further injury. Morrigan’s lip was bleeding from where she had taken a branch full to the face in bear form. But the witch had succeeded in toppling one of the things, and after that they had somewhat more of a plan. Wynne, though weak in fire, was able to to set some things alight, and between them they managed to get through.

The sylvans were not the worst of it, however. There were more werewolves to contend with as well, and bears and wildlife further in that roamed the untouched wilderness. Werewolves carried the curse, and Eideann was extra wary of running into any that would attack, unlike Swiftrunner and his scouts. With no definitive cure, she did not want any of her group to end up under those circumstances. 

The ruins were thicker the deeper they went, vines and roots twining through ancient and broken stone, the remnants of long-forgotten cemeteries and fortresses of toppled towers. Worse was that the Veil was thin enough there that spirits not only possessed the trees and wildlife, but the corpses of the long dead as well. Every so often, one would shudder, burst from the earth or emerge as skeletal remains, bones that should long ago have been dust. 

They were well and truly lost before they finally stumbled almost by accident upon a hint as to the werewolves’ location. It was a despairing howl, tortured snarls and pitiful whines that cut through the clearing. No bear that. It was one of the werewolves, hunched over in a small clearing, shuddering and scrabbling at the forest floor with clawed hands. About its neck was a pink scarf, tied too tightly as if done for a smaller neck. 

Eideann stopped short, bringing the others to a halt and watching with caution for a trap. She decided it best to go back a little, go around just to be safe. The creature seemed wild enough, and she had no idea if it would attack them or even had as much possession of self as Swiftrunner and his scouts had. So she took a few steps back and turned on her heel, and then stopped dead in her tracks.

“Please…help…listen…” It was a heaving voice, full of teeth and half-formed words awkwardly spoken through a mouth never meant for words. It hurt to hear it, grating and dark and low and desperate. Eideann closed her eyes a moment, aware the others were watching her, and then made up her mind. She looked back. “I am not…the mindless beast I appear to be…” The creature was on its knees, hulking form lurching with effort, watching her with wolf eyes narrowed in pain. It gave a low whine, and Eideann raised her chin before walking into the clearing. The werewolf made a noise that was half gratitude half pain.

“What happened to you?” Eideann asked quietly, moving carefully towards the beast. It made no mood to attack. 

“They…I am cursed, turned into this creature. The curse, it…it burns in me!” the creature cried, snarling. “I…fled into the forest. The werewolves, they…took me in. But I had to return. I had to!” 

“Careful,” Alistair said solemnly from just behind her. “These werewolves might have laid a trap for us, or something. You never know.” Eideann narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

“I don’t think so. Not this time.” The werewolf snarled.

“You are…human. I am…I was an elf, one of the Dalish folk. Do you know of my clan?” Eideann gave a quiet nod, and the werewolf relaxed a little.

“Your Keeper Zathrien was the one who sent me here,” she said quietly, carefully. The beast looked down towards the forest floor.

“The Keeper sent you? Then…you seek Witherfang.” Eideann felt a shot of warning go through her. She caught sight of Zevran skirting around the beast to flank it if need be and gave a small shake of head. He lowered his bow, but did not put away the arrow. “I know why you seek him. But…” Whatever the but was, the werewolf could not manage to say. Pain had the creature doubled over again. “There is no time to explain. You must listen…” it begged. “My name is Danyla. My husband…he is called Athras. Please, you must…bring him a message.” 

Danyla, a Dalish elf cursed and turned into such a beast. Eideann swallowed.

“Oh the poor woman! She’s in such pain!” Leliana exclaimed, shaking her head. The pity was writ large on her face as she stepped towards the creature. Eideann put out her arm and stopped her before she could continue further, earning a dark look. But Eideann ignored the bard and fixed the werewolf with a grim look.

“What is the message?” she asked. 

“The scarf I wear…bring it to him. Tell him I love him. Tell him…I am dead and with the gods. I beg you…” Eideann considered a moment, then carefully stepped forward to bend before the heaving creature and untie the scarf that was cutting into her neck. The beast immediately eased, relief flooding through it as the scarf came free, though it had left a sore wound where it had cut into her flesh and pelt. 

Eideann stood up again, passing the scarf back carefully to Leliana, never taking her gaze from the wolf. Then she narrowed her eyes. The creature was dying. The scent of infection and the way she whimpered and snarled was proof enough. 

“Ah, the pain!” the creature howled. “The curse…is fire in my blood! Please! End it for me! End it quickly!” Eideann stared, and the creature looked up with eyes that could have been flooded with tears where it not on the face of a werewolf. 

“I need answers, first. Please,” Eideann replied softly. “So that this cannot happen to anyone else.” Danyla gave a sharp whine.

“I…will tell you…what I know. If you promise…to end my pain.” 

“You have my word,” Eideann said, simply and clearly. Bryce Cousland had always taught his children that mercy was not to be trifled with. Couslands always kept their word. 

“Then…then know this: the werewolves are no longer…violent animals. They have…overcome the curse. Like I have.” Eideann’s eyes narrowed. She had considered it possible when they had met Swiftrunner, but the implications of such a thing were enormous. If every werewolf had such control now, then the attack on the Dalish was very much intentional, very much planned, and not simply an act of revenge or rage. The werewolves had eased the rage that had driven them for centuries, leashed it, and in so doing made themselves mortal again in mind if not in body.

“There is a ruin,” Danyla continued with effort, “in the center of the forest…You may find them there. They will think…you mean to kill them.” She snarled, arching back. “I can tell you no more…the pain is…too much. Please…fulfil…your promise.” Eideann drew her sword and drove it in one merciful stroke through Danyla’s heart. The creatures claws raked across her shoulder causing her to grit her teeth, but she made no noise. To do so would be to take away the solemnity and the dignity of such a moment. Danyla thrashed only once, giving a sharp snarl.

“Gods…bless you,” she said with effort, and then slipped away into peace and death. Eideann carefully drew her sword out, then wet her lips, gazing into the forest beyond the woman’s body, her sword dripping fresh blood onto the flattened grass.

“Do the Dalish bury their dead, or burn them?” Leliana asked quietly.

“They bury them, and plant a tree over the remains. Life from death.” Morrigan was the one who replied. She carefully summoned the powers of the earth and the stones shifted about them, carefully building a cairn for the dead werewolf. “Tis not traditional,” she said when it was finished, “but t’will do. It’s more than most get.” Eideann drew a breath, then closed her eyes and finally bent to wipe her sword clean. 

“So we follow the ruins,” she said grimly, “and hope they lead us to the center of the forest.” The others simply followed, even Zevran, who was watching her with a guarded look like he was trying to work out who she was again.

The ruins and the forest grew thicker and denser as they went in.

“There’s something about this place,” Wynne said quietly as they followed the crumbling walls further into the gloom, “that makes my skin crawl.” Eideann was inclined to agree. Sten, however, had taken to moving through the trees with, dare she say, a spring in his step. He prowled through like there was no danger of being snared in brambles or tripped up by crumbling ruin stones. 

“How do you do that, my taciturn friend?” Zevran asked him, stepping carefully over a protruding root and staring at the Qunari. Sten simply sniffed. 

“This is like my home in Seheron,” he said. “But the fiends here are only monsters.”

“What do you mean fiends?” Zevran pushed. Shale stomped past him, pressing some sort of path down, and in its wake Leliana, Wynne, and Alistair looked on, interested. 

“Ours wear the faces of men,” Sten explained grimly, eyeing up the forests. Eideann was doing something similar, because they were anything but safe where they were, but she turned her head slightly to listen, to hear more of Seheron.

Sometimes, Qunari dreadnoughts washed up on the beaches along the Storm Coast, but often she saw them rarely at the docks. She knew little enough of them, forbidden as she was from speaking to them when she had been younger. She knew only what Alduous had taught her, and that was slim to none as the elderly scholarly mage had been ignorant on the topic himself. Oriana, from Antiva as she was, proved a more reliable source, as Antiva was closer to Tevinter and Seheron and therefore had better tales. The Qunari invasion had been repelled for two centuries by the forces of the Tevinter Imperium. No one knew where the Qunari actually came from. They claimed everything they touched, and they sought to spread their cult across the world. Eideann had heard tales as a girl of Qunari spies across Thedas, but she had never before met another Qunari in person, and she was certainly not the sort to dismiss an entire race on a stereotype. She had never before heard that the Qunari feared Seheron, as they claimed it as their homeland and such a thing was not common knowledge. 

“Are they like darkspawn then?” Alistair asked, as curious as she was. Sten glowered, or maybe not, it was hard to tell.

“No,” he said firmly. “Even the most cunning emissaries of the archdemon cannot pass for men. Darkspawn, abominations, plagues, and storms: Men are far more dangerous than these.” Eideann listened, intrigued. For all Sten could be frustrating, to see his worldview was always an experience, and in this idea, at least, Eideann happened to agree with the Qunari. Men were more dangerous than abominations, darkspawn, and natural events. Men were equipped to manipulate one another. “One moment of betrayal,” Sten said, “can bring more ruin than an earthquake. You know this.” He was fixing Alistair with a dark, flinty look, and Alistair was somber again. They knew which betrayal he spoke of, knew it intimately. Eideann thought of Cailin and Duncan and Highever and bit her tongue.

“Does this mean there are no darkspawn in Seheron?” Leliana asked, her voice soft and gentle compared to Sten’s rough, deep tones.

“Darkspawn are not our concern in the islands,” Sten replied. “Tal-Vashoth are.” Whatever a Tal-Vashoth was, Eideann was more intrigued by the news that darkspawn apparently did not reach Seheron and the islands of the Qunari fleets. That meant there was a limit to their borders, and that somewhere beyond it all, there were places the darkspawn had never touched and perhaps never would. How would a darkspawn cross the sea if not for the Deep Roads? How far did the dwarven empire extend? She wanted to know, suddenly. She wanted to understand. Sten may be speaking of the troubles of Seheron, but to Eideann, there were suddenly more questions about what the darkspawn actually were, and where they really came from. 

“Tal-Vashoth?” Alistair asked, missing the finer questions Eideann had honed in on. Sten crossed his arms as Eideann worked with Shale to clear the next path through the forest of brambles and tangled branches.

“They say they are “grey ones”, true in the knowledge of themselves. They are gaping holes where men used to be. Nothing can fill them,” he said darkly. Eideann wondered how long Sten had spent on Seheron. She had head some tales of course, that it was a battlefront for Tevinter forces, Qunari, and the local people, as well as a haven of escaped slaves. 

“What do they want?” Eideann asked him simply. Sten shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, and seemed troubled by the admittance. “There was a village in the mountains of Seheron. Farmers. They grew cinnamon and nutmeg trees in perfectly ordered rows,” he said. “There would always be one person waiting: a foreman, a harvester, rank didn’t matter. Often, they would say nothing, simply watch as we worked to examine the empty house, a new one each time, that had once been the home of a colleague, a friend. We always made a point of searching. Now and then, a body would turn up in a river, eaten by rain and crows. More often, we found nothing. Even in the worst parts of the jungle, the villagers would send someone with us. To see the tiniest piece of bone or clot. Anything contained the possibility of their lost friend.” Eideann shook her head.

“So they vanished? Why? What are they fighting?” she asked quietly. She did not like this mood setting habit of Sten’s. 

“Isn’t it the nature of a wound to bleed?” Sten asked cryptically, fixing her with a flat stare. “I have no more answers than you. Why do we fight the darkspawn? Why do the darkspawn fight us?” Eideann hacked aside some of the branches in the way and shook her head.  
“It’s not the same thing,” she said. “The darkspawn are mindless. They are not intelligently making decisions.” Sten drew alongside her, clearing the branches with a swing of his ragged greatsword. 

“You are,” Sten said, and Eideann filed that away as a complement. It was something at least. “Why do you fight?” Eideann did not look to him.

“To defend my people,” she said grimly. That was the crux of it. She was fighting because she must. At least he had accepted that she was fighting. Perhaps that meant he had decided she was not a woman after all.

“In the antaam, we are told of the enemy. Assume he loves as you love, hates as you hate, and fights just as hard as you,” Sten told her. “It’s a lie, of course. But does that matter, so long as you stand and believe you know your enemy?” He narrowed his eyes. “The Tal-Vashoth wish us dead. And we wish to go on living. The point of our war is war.” Was that the same as the Blight? Eideann did not know. The point of fighting the Blights was to fight the Blights, the conflict at the heart one of life or death. There was no reconciling the two. Sten traipsed ahead a little into a more open patch of forest and for a while the going got easier, until at last Eideann raised her eyebrows.

“Maybe the Tal-Vashoth have a point?” she asked grimly, because there were always two sides. The point was never war. The Blight was never just war. Something drove the darkspawn, something which she could now hear as a gentle lilt in her head, off tune sometimes, or misaligned. That something was not an empty nothing, a force of destruction. Sten’s Tal-Vashoth were those who had rejected the Qun, and that meant they had decided that purpose was not given at birth, that they could be something else, something different, sometimes something more. They fought the Qunari from within the heart of Seheron. But Sten would not see it that way.

She expected an angry retort, but Sten just sighed, sheathing his greatsword at his back again.

“Undoubtedly,” he said simply. “They’ve used it to kill countless people.”

“They want things to change,” Alistair said quietly behind them, and Eideann watched as Sten gave a myopic smirk.

“Death is certainly a change,” he said grimly.

“You’ve gone back to being cryptic, I see,” Alistair grumbled, but Eideann knew it was anything but. Death was a change, for either side. That was the only way they knew to come to terms. Sten, for his part, just nodded.

“There are times when words fail,” he said softly, and that was that. 

Eideann pushed onward into the forest, following what appeared to be an ancient road. Flagstones lay buried beneath centuries of mulch, apparent here and there by the roots that thrust through the pavement and broke to the surface and left the remains scattered and uneven. But a road led somewhere, and somewhere was where she wanted to go. So she followed it, hoping it went the right way. She couldn’t tell from the sunlight filtered under the sharp canopy of deciduous trees what time it was or the direction, so she had no other option but to continue onward.

They camped that night along the paved road, their backs to a crumbling wall for shelter, and set a strong two-round watch for any danger. So close to the werewolves’ lair, Eideann did not trust herself to get much sleep, but she was surprised to find that she did sleep well, for the first night in a long time. Angus lay beside her, emanating warmth into her side through the quilted silk. 

The morning was slightly drizzly, and the rain that fell on the tree leaves about them occasionally reached them. But it was a misting rain, thin and soaking them through to the bone. It made her think of the Coastlands a little, to be in the woods beneath the stormy skies. So she had to push the thoughts aside and make them disappear. 

She finally drew up the courage to speak with Zevran that morning, vanishing with him into the forests to hunt small game. Zevran was good at it, which surprised her as she was certain he was from the vast and complicated Antiva City and did not get much practice at hunting. That said, he was a practiced assassin, and tracking a person was not so different, she found. 

He was silent at first, as though he had nothing to say to her, and so she kept the peace too, and together they moved, tracking the signs of a few small animals while they could move quietly. In fact, he did not speak until he had managed to pin a rabbit to a nearby tree with a well-placed arrow, and only then because he was actually curious.

“Is there something on your mind, _Bella_?” he asked her in his Antivan accent. 

“You were not happy with me before,” she said simply, and he waited. She had nothing else to add for a moment, until at last he sighed heavily and pulled the rabbit free of the tree, still skewered on the arrow. 

“I do not think we can save them all, my beautiful Grey Warden. But you are determined to try, I see, and that Danyla woman admitted all was not as it appears, yes?” He shook his head, his brown eyes a little sad. “The Dalish are a proud people, those who refuse to bow to defeat. Even if you find this help, will they accept it from a human, from someone other than their own?” 

“Perhaps, and yet perhaps not. Something happened in these woods to make this curse, and if we can find out what, we may be able to help them all. Don’t you think they all deserve the chance to be free of the curse, not just the elves?” He sighed.

“It is not my place to decide who deserves to live and die, _Bella_. I am an assassin,” he replied. He looked at her then, his eyes honest and open. “I often find myself the instrument of fate, ending these lives for one necessity or another. I console myself with the notion that most of them had it coming. Which of these werewolves has never attacked another being and spread this curse?” Eideann watched him pull his arrow free and hand her the rabbit to keep hold off. She took it by the feet, and he moved on. “You think to save them all, _Bella_ , but you may simply choose the beasts over the people.”

“I can only do what I can do,” she said quietly. “I genuinely believe that there is something else at work here.”

“I know,” he replied softly. “Your judgment has not let us down yet. I was angry with you perhaps, because the Dalish rarely trust outsiders, and you had promised them your aid. I should know better than to try to read the mind of dashing heroines.” She shook her head.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” she told him flatly. “It is good that you understand.” He arched an eyebrow at her, smirking.

“The fault lies with me then?” he laughed, then shook his head. “As for flattery, my ravishing goddess, I see you have not spent much time in Antiva. There, women are accustomed to being showered with the praise they deserve. Men should worship at your feet as you pass.” Eideann shook her head as they abandoned their morning hunt in favor of returning to the campsite the way they had come.

“I don’t trust anything that puts a man on his knees,” she said quietly, “be they lords, kings, or Andraste and the Maker herself.” He just cocked his head slightly and smiled, his eyes glittering knowingly.

“Ah, _Bella_ ,” he said in a coy tone. “Sometimes men like to be on their knees. It could even be pleasant for you as well.” She shot him a flat look, her blue gaze icy.

“Watch you who try to bed, elf,” she said sharply. “It is dangerous.” He just laughed, full and confident.

“I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting,” he grinned and she shook her head and stalked back the way they had come.

At the camp, Alistair was watching warily, and she saw him visibly relax when he noticed her, as if he was expecting Zevran to slit her throat in the woods or some such. The man had sworn an Antivan oath, and where would he go anyway? He was safer with them, and they both knew it. Not to mention in the middle of the Brecilian Forest was a poor locale to split and run. She crossed towards him, rabbit in hand, and held it out to him.

“You remember how to skin it?” she asked as he took it warily, eyeing it up grimly.

“Barely,” he told her as she leaned against the tall tree at his back. “You…err…not have much luck then?” He was deliberately not looking at her. She smiled slightly.

“A rabbit will feed us badly, but it’s better than nothing. It isn’t safe to go too far away from the group. Not when we aren’t sure how far away the lair is.” He did look at her then, pausing in his preparations to consider her.

“You’re sure about this? I mean, we don’t have very much time. What if this is very complicated, or…”

“I need archers. The Fereldan Army is busy fighting itself. If we want to fight an Archdemon, we need ranged support, and there is no one better than the Dalish.”

“We could find the wolf?” he suggested, but he had no better ideas. She just sighed.

“We will decide when we are presented with the option. For now, all roads lead to the ruins.”

“These are strange ruins,” he said softly, eyeing up the road and then turning back to the rabbit. “They almost seem Tevinter in places, and then…not. I don’t understand.”

“Maybe Tevinter made it this far?” He looked up.

“To Gwaren? Perhaps. But, I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it was a long time ago.” She agreed, and since there were no answers, she simply let it be.

They charred the rabbit on a spit over a small fire they lit on the unearthed flagstones, and then they each had a small bit for breakfast, excepting Shale who watched them with impatience muttering about squishy things and squishy bodily functions and generally being disgusted with them for taking so long. 

Eventually they moved on, once more cutting a path through the overgrown paths, until Eideann and Sten both drew up short. Ahead, in the distance, the forest faded away, and it took Eideann a moment to realize why. 

A strange mist blocked the path ahead, twisting in tendrils that reminded her of the fog that swept in from the Waking Sea back home or the twisting mists that blanketed the Fade when the Sloth Demon had made them all sleep. She grimaced, considering it.

“Vashedan!” Sten hissed, drawing his sword. “Do you have Fog Warriors in the South?”

“’Tis magic of a sort,” Morrigan said, considering it. She drew up beside them, piercing gaze narrowed to concern. “But ‘tis no magic I know of. A natural magic then? From the Fade? Or the forest itself?”

“That Swiftrunner…he said the forest had eyes, that it was Witherfang’s home specifically,” Eideann said slowly, working through what they knew. “What if that is more than just saying? What if it really _is_ Witherfang’s forest?” Wynne came to join them as well.

“You mean that Witherfang can control the forest and the trees? It is difficult to imagine.”

“The Avvar are the last of the old Alamarri,” Eideann said softly. “They worship the Lady of the Skies, the gods of winter and such. They believe in the spirits of the world around them. Is that possible?” She looked between the two mages. Wynne considered it. Morrigan drew a breath.

“Possibly. There are a great many things that we do not understand in this world, and many more that have been lost. Spirits of the natural world? ‘Tis not impossible,” she told her after a moment.

“I do not know how, but let us assume for a moment that this is the case. Who then is Witherfang?”

“Perhaps the spirit of the forest itself,” Morrigan replied. “We know already what can happen when spirits of the Fade are twisted into demons. Abominations take shape, warping the forms of mortals. Was not your time at the Tower proof enough of that?” Her brows knitted. “This is a place with a very weak Fade, and the warping of bodies sounds very similar to what has happened to these cursed individuals. I wonder if they are not related.” 

“Enough of this,” Sten said sharply. “We cannot go through it.” 

“Of course we can. But be careful.”   
As it turned out, Sten was right, and they could not go through it. They were turned around in the mists, no matter how much they tried, until at last they aborted further attempts and retreated from the fog to reconsider their options.

“I do not think we can make any progress,” Wynne said in concern. “We could barely see our way through the mist and now we are back at the beginning again.”

“So what do we need to do?” Leliana asked, grimacing. “Is it magic that is keeping us from getting through the path?” There was no other explanation, but neither Wynne nor Morrigan had any answers for them. 

“’Tis an enchantment that only recognizes the werewolves and forest creatures,” Morrigan offered. “If we can find some way around it, then perhaps we can move forward.”

Eideann sighed, running her hands through her short hair and thinking. She was so distracted, she almost missed it when one of the trees moved.

It was a tall oak that stretched, for lack of a better explanation, and reached out with jagged branches with a low stirring. It had been some time since they last saw one of the possessed sylvans, and so this one had them scrambling for having missed it before. It rocked back and forth, and Eideann and the others hurried back out of the way as weapons rang from their sheaths and bows were nocked and drawn.

But the tree did not attack them. It peered at them with gnarled knots for eyes, and gave a long, low hum.

“What manner of beast be thee that comes before this Elder Tree?” It spoke. 

For a moment Eideann was rooted to the spot. It spoke. Of all things, now she was talking to nature. She must be mad. Was it the taint? None of it was real. She was probably still trapped in the Fade dreams in the Circle Tower forever and any minute now…

“You’re not going to attack me are you?” she asked hesitantly, taking a step forward. In for bit, in for gold, her mother had always said. If it was a dream, there was no harm.

“Ah, thou speakest of the others, how filled they are with hate,” the tree mused in a slow voice. “Allow me to apologize on their behalf; they cannot control their fate.” He creaked as if blown by the wind, but none of the other trees moved, and he was rocking more than any tree should, as if glad of the chance to move. “Allow me to welcome thee. I am the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree.” 

“It rhymes? ‘Tis a rhyming tree,” Morrigan said, finding her voice at last. “One can only guess what manner of spirit this is.” Wynne nodded, peering at the tree in awe.

“The world is…certainly full of marvelous, unexpected creations. Each day we see something that we never thought possible,” she said softly, as if to herself. Eideann wondered if she even knew she had spoken it aloud. 

“What are you exactly?” the Warden asked, tilting her head.

“I am an elder oak and nothing more, though once I dreamt of a time before. Perhaps I was a spirit then? A wandering thing drawn to this glen? But then that spirit joined with a tree, since then a tree is all I be,” it said simply. Eideann decided it truly did mean them no harm and let her swords slip back into the sheaths at her back. The others followed suit.

“Yes, fascinating, but does it know how to get through the fog?” Zevran asked simply. The Elder Tree creaked and rocked again, scattering a rain of golden leaves down across them. Eideann picked one from her hair and looked at the tree.

“Unless thou thinkst it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon?”

“In exchange? What is this boon?” Eideann asked. 

“I have but one desire, to solve a matter very dire: as I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn,” the Elder Tree explained. 

“And you want it back, I take it?” Eideann said, feeling her heart sink. She did not have the time to go running about looking for a single acorn in a forest they could barely navigate as it was. That said, this Elder Tree was the best hope they had of getting through that mist. A creature of the forest was really their only hope, so they had no other choice. Not really.

“All I have is my being, my seed,” the Elder Tree said, recognizing her silence as hesitance. “Without it I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out; yet I shall die if left without.” 

_This too is a creature asking for protection. This is what Wardens do,_ Eideann reminded herself, and then crossed her arms.

“Very well, I will help you, but I need more information. I can’t search the whole forest for a single acorn. And in exchange you have to help us through that fog.” The Elder Tree swayed and another flurry of leaves covered them. Eideann took that as agreement.

“Go to the east to find this man. I shall await, do what thou can,” the Tree said, and since that was all they were going to get, Eideann sighed and glanced to the others.

“Morrigan, stay here and see if you can do anything about that barrier. Wynne, you’re with me. And Leliana and Sten.” She looked to Angus who gave a low whine. “Stay here, boy,” she told him, and then fixed Alistair with a look. “You’re in charge while I’m gone. Stay safe.” He nodded, though he did not look happy at being left with Morrigan, and then Eideann unshouldered her pack and hauled herself up the branches of the nearest tree to get her bearings.

At the top it took her a moment to take in the sea of grass and leaves. She tried to tell by the position of the sun, and caught it glistening off the shining sea far in the east. Gwaren and the coast. Confident of her direction, and also judging the distance as best she could to work out the distance, she swung back down and dropped to her feet before Wynne and Leliana with a grin, clapping her hands together.

“We’ve travelled a really long way,” she told them. “There isn’t much more east before we hit the coast.” That was a stroke of luck, so they took off, Sten in tow, to find the Elder Tree’s thief and get back the acorn.

Finally, for the first time in days, she felt like she was getting somewhere, and that meant suddenly she was filled with that fire again. She could taste success, for she had also seen as she looked out over the treetops, the smoke of a fire. The thief was not camped far away, and before long they would reach the werewolf lair.

***

The wind was choppy and brisk, and a squall threatened the coasts to the west, but it was smooth sailing for the time being, and the feeling of the pitch and roll beneath her feet made her smile. Some called her foolhardy for setting sail towards the Blight, but Rialto lost its charm over the years, and she had heard some rather intriguing rumors of some rather intriguing plunder down the way in Orlais. It was her custom when off on such journeys to camp at the mouth of the Amaranthine Ocean and wait to see what goodies would come along. So, to Denerim it was, Blight or no, to visit a few old friends at the Pearl, make a few new ones, win a few fights, and generally cause trouble. At some point she’d be meeting her contact of course, but for the time being it was enough to simply be sailing south again where the seas were gray and dark and stormy and exciting. 

As for the Blight, she could sail away from that if need be. Darkspawn couldn’t swim. Well, not that she knew of anyway.

She tucked her hair back under her bandanna and ran her tongue over the inside of her labret with a grin. Her hold was full of coin from the last big payout, and her boys were eager for a taste of the Denerim docks and the pleasures found in its seedier establishment.

“Captain!” She looked up to the deck where her first mate, Casavir, was beckoning to her.

“Yes, Sweetness?” she called, crossing the deck with the grace and balance of a cat and making her way up the steps. She could feel the roll of the sea and it was wonderful. How many years had she had this ship? How many? It was brilliant. She loved the Siren’s Call. This was what true freedom was. 

“A word, Captain?” She bent over the railing and cocked her head to show she was listening. “Some of the men were wondering who this…contact…is?” 

“Someone with good information. Orlesian, so a fancy ponce, all ums and ahs, but he knows how to dig up the good dirt. This one will pay off, you shall see.” Casavir drew a breath, and she knew from the silence that this was his thinking breathing. 

“Orlesians? That will be trouble, Isabela. We already owe a lot of good coin to the Felicisima Armada. You’re the Raider Queen, but we can’t keep falling short. This better be a good payoff,” he finally said. Isabela pursed her lips, breathing in the salty air and shaking her head.

“Don’t you worry about the Armada,” she said simply. “The Siren’s Call is faster than half those ships, and anyway this plan is going to work. You’ll see.” She turned around then to lean back against the railing instead, flashing him a brilliant smile. Then she looked up towards the mast where Brand and Hayder were working the sails. “Harder, boys, harder!” she called with a wicked grin, then pushed herself up, looking back to Casavir. “I know what I’m doing, sweetness.” 

“No one doubts that, Captain,” the First Mate said grumpily. “I just wanted to know what sort of payoff we’re expecting. What information are you hoping to find?”

“Rumor has it,” she said, crossing behind him on the deck, “that our little friend knows the location of a particularly valuable bit of old junk. We’re going to find out and steal it, and then we can retired and live like kings. Sound good to you?” Casavir just sighed, because he had known her long enough not to trust her simplistic statements. Isabela did not care. “Anyway, we’ll make port and take shore leave in Denerim for a bit before our meeting. With the Waking Sea full of refugee carriers, we’ll have our hands full keeping this discreet for the moment. If there’s trouble, we’ll cut and run and no harm done.”

“Isabela, I’m not sure…”

“We’ll stay at the Pearl, if Sanga doesn’t mind having us back. I hope that apostate is back. The one who does things with electricity.” She grinned and then took the steps, two at a time. “Maintain our heading, sweetness. I want to be there within the week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the number of interwoven stories and the fact this is a chronological stories, there will occasionally be scenes establishing characters for future arcs as they relate to their timeline now. Since this is mostly unknown, I am taking some liberties in terms of what I write in these stories, but I actually really like the lore of Dragon Age, and I try to make it fit in as best as I can. Sometimes, I stumble upon new things I didn't know and want to throw them in too, so if you're interested in any of the backstory or whatnot, I am doing my best to stay true to the lore as much as possible (with a few tweaks for story consistency). 
> 
> Thank you to all my readers, all those who leave kudos, and all who comment! Feedback is always appreciated, so if you have questions or input I'd love to hear it! 
> 
> ~HigheverRains


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and Morrigan tease Alistair; Eideann finally tells the group a little about herself; Eideann and the group enter the Brecilian Ruins, but find that all is not as it appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome.

“You are thinking,” the elf said in his irritating know-it-all tone, “of luscious lips and eyes like stars, and what soft flesh would look like bare and glistening with sweat in the darkness of desire.” Alistair swung about, shooting the assassin a dark look.

“Excuse me?” Zevran sat atop a rock beside Shale who was glowering at the Elder Tree in the distance like it did not know whether a talking tree was better or worse than all the squishy things it travelled with. The assassin was tending to his weapons with the loving care of a practiced professional, but there was a devious look to his eye.

“Our beautiful, fierce, ravishing leader,” the Antivan said with a smirk. Then he sighed dramatically and looked at his blades. “She is a woman without equal, and I have known a few. Tell me you do not think of what she looks like beneath all those layers of stern regard and determination?”

“What are you - !? This is ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous? To desire a woman? How so?” Zevran said innocently, switching to his other blade and fixing Alistair with a simple look.

“She’s not someone to lust after!” Alistair demanded. “She’s a person! A Lady! She’s the Warden-Commander of Ferelden!”

“And she looks well in a river, damp and dripping, her lips swollen from stolen kisses,” Zevran added with a grin. He pointedly looked away. “Or do you disagree?”

“You foul little - !”

“Enough!” Morrigan cut in, shooting them both a glare. She had been trying to attempt to break through the fog with no success, and her magic had been sending Alistair’s skin crawling all morning. His Templar training had made him sensitive to spellcasting in a way his mind was sensitive to the darkspawn taint, and he did not like it when she was casting willy-nilly into nothingness. What if it shot right back out at them? “I do not,” Morrigan said, crossing her arms and shooting them a glare, “want to hear either of you discussing who would like to bed Eideann Cousland more. One of you make a move and have done with the nonsense.”

“Make a - ?” Alistair stared. What was _with_ these two?! “I have absolutely no intention of…of… _that_! I wouldn’t even know where to start if I did have any intentions!”

“Really?” Zevran was staring at him with a slightly amused gaze. “So let me get this straight. You have…never wooed? Not once? You are woo-less as it were?” Alistair felt his face heat from his blush, and he turned his back to them.

“Shut up!” he spat. Zevran gave a clear laugh.

“Ah, my friend, there is no shame in innocence. But neither is there shame in knowing what you want.”

“I do wonder,” Morrigan added, expression cool. “Is it permissible for two Grey Wardens to…oh, what is the word I search for?” Alistair shot her a dark look. She smiled mirthlessly. “Fraternize.”

“What’s wrong with fraternizing?” Alistair asked impatiently. This was not either of their business. Just because Zevran had discovered that kiss in that lake…

Just thinking of that kiss made his knees a bit weak. He sank down on a crumbling ruin wall with his back to a tree and grimaced.

“It seems most undisciplined,” Morrigan replied, throwing another spell into the fog with no return, “for an organization that claims it will do whatever is necessary to end the darkspawn threat.” Alistair crossed his arms.

“One thing,” he said firmly, “has nothing to do with the other.” Did she imagine some sort of romantic elopement into the west to leave Ferelden to the Blight? Neither he nor Eideann would ever abandon their fight. If he knew nothing else about the newest Warden-Commander – her title because he did not want it and she was the leader they needed – it was that she was determined. Nothing could break her. Nothing would lead her astray. And he would not do so either.

But that did not convince Morrigan, who gave him a wry look.

“Oh no?” she asked quietly. “And what if a Grey Warden is forced to choose between the Warden he loved and ending the Blight? What should his choice be?” Alistair froze.

Such a thing…such a question…

And what did she mean love? He did not love Eideann Cousland. She was incredible, inspiring, beautiful…but they had only met a few months earlier. How could he ever in his wildest dreams talk of love in such a way? Maker, no!

But what if it grew into that? What if there was…

He hurriedly pushed the thought aside.

“That is a…ridiculous question,” he finally said, shooting her an angry look.

“And I have my answer,” Morrigan replied pointedly, and went back to casting her spells.

Alistair grimaced, hunching down a little and staring at his feet. He had never…could not…such a thing…no, he would not think on it. The Blight must be stopped. They were Wardens.

_Join us in the duty that cannot be forsworn._

Well that was fairly final in its proclamation. And he knew enough of Eideann Cousland that duty was the maxim she shaped her world around. She would never choose someone she loved over the Blight. She would never be able to. Her sense of honor, dignity, and duty would not let her. When those two came into conflict…

Should they stop? Should this be…should they…he did not want to think what it would mean to stop. He wanted more, not less. Eideann dripping wet, grinning at him her gorgeous smile, coyly teasing him until his lips claimed hers, all heat and desire between them. Maker…

She was like…fire. And her eyes like rain. The Blue Flame. Those stories he had heard in Denerim did not lie. She would burn him. Already he burned for her. As much as he hated it, Zevran was right.

“You see, my friend?” the elf said suddenly, watching him. “I told you that you desire her.” Alistair glared at him.

“Enough.”

“There is nothing wrong,” the elf continued, “with a bit of fun. Take your pleasures where you can.”

“Ugh!” They both started and turned to stare at Shale, the golem which had turned its attention on them. Zevran recovered quickly, smiling wanly.

“I am sorry, my friend. I imagine it must be terrible for you to see others…together. You know.”

“Together?” the golem grumbled. “As in standing next to one another?” Alistair stifled a smirk at the look on Zevran’s face, but the assassin struggled onward, determined to persevere.

“I speak of love, my sturdy friend. And the act of love. Surely this must bring you discomfort, knowing you can never partake in such pleasures.”

“That is disgusting,” the golem declared archly. “It was bad enough that I had to suffer the occasional pair of villagers lying in my shade, but the idea of partaking? Gah!” It stomped its feet, causing the leaves to rustle about them and some to scatter over them as they came loose from branches above. The golem was nothing subtle, that much was certain.

“You are stoic, my friend. And brave. You do us a great honor by suffering in silence,” Zevran said in his usual overzealous charm.

“I was not suffering, silently or otherwise, until now.” Shale grumbled and turned away. Morrigan opened her mouth, but the golem’s crystals flared a bright purple. “And the Swamp Witch will add nothing.” Morrigan, silenced, arched a brow and turned away.

Alistair decided he liked Shale a little then.

“Look, my friend,” Zevran said, turning his attentions back to the ex-Templar who wilted a little under the lack of escape. “It is simply this: if you wish the woman to be yours, you need only ask. She seems willing, from your display in the river, and you do not know when the opportunity will come again. If it were me – “

“It _isn’t_ you!” Alistair said, rising with every intent of storming off. “Eideann Cousland is a beautiful, intelligent, and capable woman. She is not something to – !”

Zevran was looking past him, and even Morrigan was looking there too. Alistair spun about, and saw Leliana, Sten, Wynne, and worst Eideann standing and watching him. Eideann considered him.

“Not something to…?” she prompted quietly. Alistair felt himself flush bright red. He forced himself to look away, pushing past them and hurrying off to give himself some privacy and space, unable to meet her eye. Maker, what a mess.

Damn that elf.

***

It had been a long day, and Morrigan’s spells had apparently gotten nowhere. Eideann and her company had been more successful, encountering an old hermit Wynne immediately pegged as a blood mage and dangerous, who spoke only in questions and insisted on paranoia at every turn. Eideann eventually lost her patience, and proved him right in being paranoid by setting Sten on him. The Qunari had been happy to oblige, and the end result was that she had an acorn, the dangerous mage was dead, and it had only taken them a few hours to be done with it.

It was getting late by the time they arrived back at the camp, and it did not seem wise to wander into a werewolf lair in the darkness, when wolves were nocturnal. So Eideann had every intention of making camp on this side of the fog barrier and making their move in the morning when they were rested.

She had not been banking on returning to a conversation about Maker only knew what, with her name being thrown about as the object of many complements. And she had not expected Alistair to flee when she interrupted their rather delicate conversation, obviously where she was not meant to be. Zevran had flashed her a brilliant smile and tried to sneak off too, but he did not escape her withering gaze even as he went for firewood.

Eideann sighed, deciding to deal with Alistair then and there, damn whatever confusion he may have. And damn what the others thought. It was apparent now that they believed something was going on, and while she herself did not even have such answers yet, she would have to respond regardless.

She left Leliana and Wynne to start preparing some sort of food, even if it was only a concoction of various plant-based goods, and followed Alistair’s trail through the forest. It was easy to find him, because he left obvious tracks and he had not gone far. She approached, and she saw him whip about at the sound of her footsteps.

“I…I didn’t mean…” he stammered, but she simply glanced into the woods.

“Come on,” she told him quietly. “Let’s find some dinner.”

She had not been properly hunting in a long time, not like she had at Highever. She often went alone when she could, or took Angus. It was strange to go with Alistair, who was not the quietest of companions in moving through the forest, but made an effort to learn what she showed him when at last she was frustrated with his poor attempts. She kept her swords sheathed, focusing instead with her bow. Tracking gave her the distraction she needed to think. And Maker, she needed to think now.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair finally said, “for back there. It wasn’t…I mean…”

“Thank you,” she said simply, “for the complements.” He flushed a little red again and she sighed. “How did they find out?”

“Zevran saw us…at the Dalish camp.”

“Ah.”

A cool breeze ruffled her short hair, and she closed her eyes a moment to catch a scent better. Somewhere nearby was a herd of august ram, she decided. Somewhere close. They may eat better than she thought that evening.

Alistair was a good man, honest and true. She had spent so much of her life trying to avoid the marriage traps of being a Teryn’s daughter that she had a wall up when it came to nonsense and flattery and bullshit. She found that it frequently made an appearance in Zevran’s company as of late, though that may simply be because the man flirted like he breathed, and never stopped.

Alistair was different. There was a subtle sincerity to everything he said and did. The rose in her pack was a symbol of that, still with the thorns on the stem. He spoke to her as a comrade, as a colleague, and as a man. And sometimes he spoke to her as more.

He was watching her, waiting for a signal or a sign, she knew. But she could see the tracks of the herd now, and wanted to close in.

“Does it bother you?” Alistair asked quietly, and she drew the bow string tighter.

“Does what bother me?”

“Them knowing. About…about us.” She stopped a moment, gazing into the woods, and then saw her target, the nearest in a pack of august ram. Alistair saw them too then, because he sank down lower and fell quiet. But there was worry in him.

She took aim, drawing the fletching to her cheek, and narrowed her eyes slightly.

And then she let fly. There was a startled noise of a wounded animal, and a thud as something fell. And then she knocked another arrow and followed up the shot, bringing the creature down. A small smile flittered across her lips and she rose to go and examine her kill, making her way through the undergrowth.

“What is us?” she finally asked, unable to look at him. “A kiss in a river? A rose on the battlements? What are you looking for?” Alistair drew up short, watching as she bent to tear her arrows free of the felled august ram and finish the job with Duncan’s dagger which she kept still carefully tucked under her belt.

“I…I don’t know…” Honesty. It was refreshing. Eideann hauled the ram up onto her shoulders with a hunter’s ease and fixed him with a look. Her rainy eyes met his amber, shining like gold, a little worry hiding there, and she smiled slightly.

“Alistair, has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?” she asked him. He flushed a little, his eyes dancing away a moment. It made her smile a little more.

“Not unless they were asking me for a favor. Well, there was that one time in Denerim, but those women were…” he seemed to realize what he was saying then and cut short. “Not like you,” he finished hesitantly. She gave a soft laugh and drew a breath. “Why?” he asked her then. “Is this your way of telling me _you_ think I’m handsome?” She just gave him a secretive smile and turned away back towards the camp. He took that exactly as she had meant him to, and he followed her, grinning. “Oh, I get it. I’ll get it out of you, yet,” he told her. She laughed, feeling the refreshing feeling of that laughter washing the darkness away for a moment. “So…is this the part where I get to the say the same?”

“You already did,” she said pointedly, “quite emphatically to Zevran in fact.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Alistair,” her smile faded a little and she looked back at him, “I don’t know what is happening here. You and I are the only things that stand against the Blight, but if we let the Blight consume us, we are no different from darkspawn. This…these…feelings…they’re part of being human, and we should have them. With all that we must control and manage in our line of work, this time, this one time, I want to step back and let whatever will happen, happen.” She looked away a moment, thinking. How far she was from those days of rage and anger and despair. How far she had come, to be able to be this person again, strong and resilient. “I need to tell you how much I enjoy your company.” Alistair gave her a warm smile, taking a step closer, a little uncertain.

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing?” he said softly, giving a quiet chuckle. He looked away, shaking his head. “Given the circumstances, things could have been so much worse. I’m so grateful that you’re you, instead of…some other Grey Warden.” He drew up short. “Umm…that sounded better in my head.” Eideann gave another laugh, shifting the small ram on her shoulders. It was heavy, and she could not last that much longer, plus they would want to start cooking it at camp as soon as possible. Alistair sighed, recognizing the weight and fixing her with a look. “I just mean to say,” he clarified, “that I can’t imagine having done this without you.”

“I feel the same way,” she told him sincerely, because she did. Perhaps that kiss in the river had not been a change for them but a natural progression. She knew that she could not have done so much, come so far without Alistair though. She thought of the Fade, of his dream of his happy family in a happy home, and her a part of it. She thought of him resting his head on her shoulder, of turning his back when they went to change into their new uniforms, of his hand finding hers under the waters of the river and drawing her gently closer, of his mouth on hers, hot and heavy and something she had not realized she desperately needed until he had done it, until it was there. Alistair was warmth and life and the gentleness of the world wrapped up into one. And with the darkspawn taint in his blood as well as hers, no one knew her better now. No one knew that nights were filled with horrors, that there was always the presence of the taint beneath all the joy of the world.

This was not some storybook, where a princess is swept off her feet in some romantic tale. This…whatever it was…was something else, the magnetic force of a man and a woman who had walked the brink of death together, still did, and who stood now hands held against the end of the world. She had seen him slay dragons, battle demons and apostates in the Tower. She had watched him cut down darkspawn beside her.

And she did not really know what she would do when all this was done and they would have to move on. So let there be no expectations, let it simply be whatever this was.

He was thinking much the same thing, she realized, when he shot her a small smile.

“Now we just need to be rid of that pesky Archdemon and everything would be back to normal, right?” he laughed. Eideann shook her head and smiled.

At camp, they earned a few sly looks, which Eideann pointedly ignored and Alistair got all flustered over. But the overwhelming response was actually joy at being properly fed for once, so Eideann turned the ram over to the others for preparation and sank into a seat across from the now building fire for warmth.

It was winter properly, and even in the depths of the forest the chill that settled over them all was enough to make their breath mist in the night. As darkness fell, they gathered about their single fire, even Morrigan, and ate well for the first time in a long time.

Eideann sat huddled in her Warden cloak, the black fur lining tickling her chin as she listened to Leliana telling the legend of Flemeth to them, embellishing all the parts of the legend, and arguing on the finer points with Morrigan who would of course know it better. Beside her, Alistair sat picking through his food, listening and laughing and nodding when appropriate, but she could tell he was thinking very hard about something.

“You know,” Zevran said suddenly, “if the legend of your mother is true, Morrigan, does that mean that the legends of her many daughters are as well?” Morrigan started, looking up then, and looked perplexed, which was amusing enough itself.

“To be honest,” she finally said, “I have no idea. I’ve never met any sister of mine, nor has my mother spoken of any.” Zevran made a bemused face.

“But it could be true, yes? If you exist, there could have been others like you.”

“Long ago, perhaps. Why?”

“We have legends,” Zevran told her simply, “of witches in Antiva, one that tells of a Witch of the Wilds, traveled far from her home to settle in the Tellari Swamps.” Morrigan raised an eyebrow.

“And? You thought I might know this woman?”

“If one legend can be true, why not another?” Zevran shrugged. “Who knows how many Morrigans are scattered about Thedas, hmm?”

“It’s not something I’d like to contemplate,” Morrigan shot back. Zevran grinned at her.

“Oh? You do not appreciate a little competition from a half-sister or two?” he teased.

“Silence, elf. It is none of your concern.”

“He speaks the truth though,” Leliana pointed out. “Many legends and stories are based on truths. A surprising amount, in fact.” She set aside her dish, and smiled. “The number of recent legends that come from the Orlesian-Fereldan War is staggering, and most of them true.” Eideann sighed, shaking her head.

“Some of those are best forgotten,” she laughed softly, because she knew a few too many that could be linked back to Highever, and that was uncomfortable at best. But Leliana fixed her with a look, a challenge.

“Your own father served under King Maric, did he not?”

“My old Master fought for Maric. I recall crushing many Orlesians during the battles,” Shale said suddenly. They looked up in surprise, all of them, and Eideann considered the golem.

“You…remembered?” she asked.

“No,” the golem admitted. “Not really. Just some things. And darkness. Only darkness before that, for I do not know how long. It asks too many questions.” Eideann shook her head, then sighed.

“My father was the Commander of a regiment. He fought for King Maric, and we reclaimed Highever from the occupation for the first time in 70 years after the Orlesians were driven from Ferelden.” She smiled slightly, recalling something. “I have a story you may enjoy.”

“Oh, a tale, from you?” Leliana teased. She looked delighted.

“You wanted to know more about me and my past. I can tell you about my mother and how she met my father. You know this story.” Leliana smiled.

“Do we?”

“Yes.” Eideann settled back, closing her eyes a moment to recall the words, and then she started to sing.

It was the Soldier and the Seawolf, the tale of the meeting of a headstrong and arrogant lord’s son and a feared raider captain who hounded Orlesian ships. It was her mother and father it spoke of. Bryce had met Eleanor on the Storm Coast at Morrin’s Outlook, where she had agreed to carry his men, but the meeting had been difficult, and he had been foolish, thinking her a servant and not the daughter of a Bann.

“I do not understand,” Sten said. “Why are you singing?”

“My mother was the Seawolf, who sank her first Orlesian warboat when she was just fifteen,” Eideann said. “Her father was the Storm Giant, Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig of the Storm Coast, a raider and pirate. Mother was raised on the sea, and the Orlesians grew to fear her.” When she had first learned the story, she had scarcely believed it.

“So you know about smugglers caves in Crestwood because your mother and grandfather were pirates?” Alistair asked her with an incredulous laugh.

“My mother nearly killed my father the day they met. But they came to work well together, and when Orlesian ships sailed on Denerim, they sank a dozen boats together. The Battle of Denerim Harbor was their courtship. When it was done, my mother went back to haranguing the ships in the Waking Sea, and my father took his seat in Highever to repair the damage done. When Maric was crowned, they met again at the coronation, and there he asked her to be his Teyrna, the Seawolf of the Storm Coast. He sang the song to her, they say. He meant to get through all ten versus. By the third, she had agreed, if only to shut him up.” She ducked her head. “My mother never wanted that sort of life for my brother and I. She spent years trying to keep me in dresses, wed me off to a respectable young man of some noble family or other. I think it was because even as Teyrna, and even as a respected war hero, she felt a lot of backlash for her history. She did not want that same thing to make life harder for me. But the Coastlands beat with the blood of raiders, and the Couslands were Alamarri Kings by might and by loyalty. I cannot do less than they in fighting for my home.” She looked to them then, and then to Alistair. “We will stop the Blight. The ghosts of those we have lost will not let us fail.” She dumped the august ram bones at her feet, where Angus set upon them with zeal, and rose with a confident look. “In the morning, we will go through that fog and confront the werewolves. Everyone must be very careful. If we can, we want to break the curse. But if we cannot do so, we will uphold our promise to the Dalish, and prove to elves that the promises of outsiders are not cheap and worthless.”

“You are a strange one,” Zevran said slowly. “Must you do everything yourself?” She laughed, shaking her head.

“Of course not,” she said with a smile. “I have all of you.”

For the first night in a long night, she slept, peacefully and soundly, without nightmares or fitful rest.

***

Eideann Cousland had gone with Wynne and Morrigan to exchange the acorn for a way through the barrier. He was nervous, not least of which because there were any number of complications unforeseen beyond that misty curtain. Mostly, it was the fact that they were so close now, so deep in the ancient forest, and sometimes he felt his skin tingle like it did when people used magic. Sometimes it was just the forest itself, as if the entire thing rang with ancient spells woven into the threads of reality here. The Veil felt real here, like an actual barrier, and he could almost feel something pushing back against them, something dark and old.

No, he hated this forest, and the sooner they were done, the better.

The women returned, Morrigan holding a staff of whitewood that looked like a branch from the Elder Tree. She was considering it bemusedly. Alistair stared at it, then looked to Eideann who had her mind-made-up face again. She considered the barrier, then looked back at them all with a serious demeanor.

“We don’t know what we will find there, so be wary. We also have no idea how many werewolves there really are, and we have yet to see this Witherfang.” Then she drew her blades and nodded to Morrigan.

The Witch held the branch aloft, and Alistair felt it swell with an old power, old like the forest. It made his skin crawl, but then a great burst of light shot forth, and the mists dissipated. The way was clear.

Well, almost.

Alistair took a few steps forward, bringing up his shield and putting both Wynne and Morrigan behind him. Eideann stood at his side.

There, waiting for them, was Swiftrunner and a number of his werewolf scouts.

“The forest has not been vigilant enough,” Swiftrunner spat through toothy jaws, bronze fur shining wet with morning dew. “Still you come.” Alistair shifted as Eideann moved forward from beside him. Swiftrunner turned his head to stare at her, and she stared him down, Maker… Couldn’t they ever do business with normal people? “You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!”

Alistair’s grip on his sword was damp with sweat. The monsters lurked over them. Only Sten or Shale was of a height with them, and that did not give him comfort. Alistair did not like how close Eideann was getting, because he knew that they had crossed the barrier now. There was no going back. The werewolves were being backed into a corner.

“Why,” Eideann said in a clear, authoritative voice she sometimes used when things were not going her way, “won’t you let me try to settle this dispute?” She sounded like a bloody Queen, dictating her will through diplomatic commands.

Swiftrunner snarled, bearing his teeth. Great scars crossed the beast’s chest and face, like he had done battle with other werewolves. He glared at them, eyes points of silver light, and Eideann stood her ground, which was impressive because Alistair wanted to step back.

He didn’t. He forced himself to stand. He had won almost won a damn tournament to become a Warden, and she was not going to show him up. He would never be able to look her in the eye if he stepped back now.

“You are sent by the treacherous Dalish to kill Witherfang!” Swiftrunner roared. “I will not stand by and allow that to happen!” Eideann’s eyes were narrowed now.

“Why? What is Witherfang to you, exactly? Is he your leader?” she asked simply, flatly, confident. Alistair’s gaze flickered to her, then back to the beasts. He really did not want a fight here. His arm was still sore from his healing burns, and his shield was heavy on that arm. He was not at his best, when he really did need to be, and he did not think Eideann really recognized that. He had been trying hard to hide it from her.

“You,” Swiftrunner growled, “are an intruder in our home. You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well!” He turned back, stalking through his scouts angrily. “Here, Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!” He turned back and howled, a piercing sound that struck right through them, and Alistair raised his shield.

Swiftrunner hit the hard metal with such force Alistair felt a cry of pain ripped from his throat. But he held his ground, his feet digging into the loam of the forest. Eideann came spinning out of nowhere, twin blades arching in circles of light, too fast to see, and the scent of blood splattering across the earth caught in Alistair’s nose. Swiftrunner roared, then the weight was gone from his shield, and Alistair swung about with his sword instead, catching another wolf.

He felt it die on the blade, a whimpering, snapping noise as it twitched and fell. Its claws raked down his Warden plate, leaving scratches across the greaves, but that was fine. He turned his attention to the next one.

Eideann had circled back around him and was moving to his right now, using him as a bulwark as she prepared for her next strike. Alistair knew it was a trick of dual wielders to move quick and fast and dance out of reach, to parry and thrust and fade back again. She had it down to an art, and he was almost aware of her without even thinking on it, which was scary itself. But today it annoyed him a little, because his arm was sore.

It was as if she knew it then, because she darted out from behind him and took up the defensive stance herself, catching a clawing wolf with crossed blades and shoving it back. It howled in pain as her blades sank into furred flesh. Its claws caught her Warden surcoat, but the studded leather kept her from being shredded by the impact. Alistair thrust at it with its shield, knocking the wolf over, and both their blades found their homes in the wolf’s heart.

Sten came roaring out of nowhere, greatsword a flailing mass that both Eideann and Alistair were forced to duck.

And then Eideann turned on Swiftrunner.

It came from nowhere, knocking Eideann from her feet and growling into her face. Angus was there in an instant, ripping and snarling, and the wolf – it was a wolf – snapped back, tearing over Eideann.

Eideann forced herself up, reaching to grasp her shoulder and wince, and the wolf snarled. Angus got in the way, placing himself between the creature and his mistress, and Alistair put himself there too, heart racing. He felt magic, Wynne’s he thought, and knew Eideann was hurt.

The wolf was white, winding brambles twisting up its limbs towards its back. Its nose was a sharp blade, and its teeth glinted.

Witherfang.

The wolf gave one long howl, and the werewolves fled back into the woods, back into the depths of the forest and the ruins. Then the wolf too departed, turning tail and bounding off. Angus did not follow, just stayed there snarling and growling until certain the threat was gone, and then he turned and bounded back to Eideann’s side to whine.

Eideann was sitting up breathing sharply, hand pressed hard to her shoulder. She winced through gritted teeth and pulled her hand back to see it covered in blood. Alistair knew he needed to give Wynne room to work, but Eideann’s blood was tainted, and Wynne knew that. The mage beckoned to him to come and hold the bandage as she poured magic into the wound to knit the flesh back together as best she could.

Even that was an effort for the mage. Alistair pressed his hand down flat and hard against the wound, and Eideann gave a sharp cry of pain at the pressure. He gave her a grimace and she squeezed her eyes shut under her short hair, then looked up. It was almost like she was trying not to cry. Alistair waited, then let Wynne tie the knots of the bandage tight over Eideann’s shoulder.

Eideann winced again and muttered a few curses, then forced herself to her feet. Leliana, standing nearby looking severe, passed her the Warden blade.

It was too heavy, and that was a bad enough sigh. Eideann almost dropped it. Alistair took it instead and helped her sheath it.

“It’s my left. I can live without that,” Eideann muttered angrily, half to herself, and then reached back tenderly behind her back to draw forth Duncan’s dagger. Alistair recognized it and watched as she weighed it in her hand, then switched stances like she were in a simple training exercise. She went from Ferelden bladesman to Antivan duelist in an instant, and he was a little impressed at her ability to compensate.

“Are we still planning to talk to them?” he asked glibly, and she shot him a look.

“Yes,” she said curtly, “if they will listen.” That seemed doubtful. “Part of me hopes they won’t though.” She suddenly had a much more personal reason for wanting to carve out Witherfang’s heart. She tested her arm, and it was slow and painful, he knew, but she could still move, still swing, and she was fast and deadly with the dagger too. “It will mend. Thank you, Wynne.” The mage just pursed her lips.

“Don’t do it again.”

“Be mauled by wolves?” Eideann said, raising her eyebrow. “I make no promises.” Alistair felt his lips curve in a small smile.

“Come on,” he told her. “We’re almost there.” She nodded, setting her jaw, and then they pushed onward.

They really were close. Only a few more turns up and they were suddenly upon a giant ruined palace, crumbling and broken by tree roots and plants. Its arches filled the sky, breaking the treeline to expose grey skies above that threatened rain or worse. It was vaguely Tevinter, but there was something off about it.

There were wolves there too, but these did not fight.

“We are invaded,” one said sharply. “Intruders have deceived their way into the forest’s heart! Fall back to the ruins! Protect the Lady!” And then they all fled into the giant crumbling monstrosity.

“Who is the Lady?” Leliana asked grimly. Alistair shook his head. This was just getting more and more complicated. Why couldn’t Eideann’s plans ever be simple? He looked at her again, worried, but she was holding up just fine. In fact, her injury had turned something to steel within her. He decided that if her mother, the Seawolf Teyrna, had ever had such a face, she probably never needed a boat to sink Orlesian ships. The frown alone would have done it. That Cousland glare was a little scary. If she did not mean business before, Eideann definitely meant it now.

“No one in your country repairs anything when they occupy it, do they?” Sten said curtly, and he was considering the crumbling ruins. Alistair looked too, and shook his head.

“Why live out here anyway?” he asked.

But those ruins were old. More than old. If the ruins were damaged by the trees, the ruins were there before the forest, and the forests were ancient. He did not like this one bit.

“I wonder what this ruin used to be,” Wynne mused. “Is it Tevinter, or is it elven?” That was a strange question with even stranger implications. Alistair did not know.

“The ruins certainly look Tevinter, but they are filled with elven trappings. How very odd,” Morrigan said.

And at the moment he did not much care.

“It’s elven,” Eideann said quietly. “There’s no Tevinter road.” That was a fair point, and there was something so off about the entire place that it made them all wary. She swallowed, then stepped inside the first courtyard and made her way across towards the door. “Come on. We have to keep moving. We’re not safe here any longer.”

***

Her shoulder was killing her. She could barely hold Duncan’s dagger, never mind her sword. That was a distinct loss. She felt off balance, and even adjusting to fix it had resulted in significantly less mobility than she would have liked. Damn that wolf.

She did not like the ruins one bit. They were not Tevinter, not like Ostagar was or the Imperial Highway. But the elves did not build, their empire long gone, and that meant these ruins were so old she could not even contemplate it. The stories said Tevinter seized the elven cities, and perhaps that was true. Either way, this ruin was the reason that the Veil was thin and the spirits possessed the forest and the darkness settled over them all.

Her shoulder throbbed painfully, but she could not ask Wynne for more healing. The old woman looked exhausted, though she would never admit it, and this was just a little thing.

 _A small mauling? Maker’s breath…_ Somedays she was ridiculous.

It was a crypt, she realized after they entered the first of many chambers. The ruin went downward, descending into the earth, and trees and plants wound their way up through the ancient stone. In parts it had crumbled and let in the greying light. In others it was deep in the shadows of the canopy, or set under stone vaulted ceilings that towered far above. But there were no signs of life, no signs that this place had been used for anything that living people would need.

_Is it a tomb?_

Eideann went carefully then, because the werewolves could be anywhere. Their first test was not the wolves, however, but the spirits that possessed corpses. It hurt her shoulder to do it, but she threw her weight into the attack, lunging and dancing as the shambling corpse, clad in ancient armor, moved on her.

Alistair was there in an instant, hammering it down with his shield, even though that arm still hurt him as well. She shot him a glare, but he did not catch her meaning. She needed to practice, she needed to try, or what good was she? He could not do all the fighting. She would not allow it.

She rolled her shoulders and the pain was like fire, but she bit it back, stifling the tears that started in the corner of her eyes, and settled into the next stance, forcing herself to remember her practice. Her mother had been an archer. Her father fought with sword and shield. She had learned to wield two swords when her father had determined she had no knack for fighting on the defensive. A shield was a way for her to stand firm and hold her ground, but Eideann did not hold her ground. She fought, as in all things, always moving forward. This injury was infuriating.  
The steps that led down had collapsed, as had many of the corridors, but tree roots served as an adequate ramp to the floor littered with skeletal remains. Eideann could not tell at first glance if they were the ancient remains of an ancient war long forgotten or if the werewolves had brought people in from far away to die there. She did not like either.

More important than the pain or the bones, however, were the words Swiftrunner had said before the attack.

“Here we learn our names and are beloved,” she murmured to herself, mulling it over, tasting the words.

“Hmm?” She noticed with a start that Zevran was on her weaker side, having marked it out right away. He had an arrow knocked, and he was guarding her. She blinked, then let it go, because she was starting to finally let him have that trust he was so desperate for, and he had had many opportunities to kill her. Protecting her injured side…fine.

“Nothing. Just…thinking.”

“If you think of anything better than this plan, you will let us know, yes?” he teased, but she heard the note of hesitancy in her voice. He was elven after all. If the werewolves thought they were messengers from the Dalish, they were all in danger, but him most of all.

 _The Lady is Witherfang._ The thought came unbidden, but settled nicely into place, and she relaxed.

“The Lady is Witherfang, and Witherfang can start the werewolf curse. Witherfang is that wolf, but that was no normal wolf.” She sighed, the pain clouding her mind. She could not put it all together. Something…something was wrong here. She was missing something important.

 _How does Zathrien know about Witherfang unless the werewolves told him? Does Zathrien know the werewolves can speak then?_ The pain stopped the rest for forming. She grimaced.

The ruins further beyond were infested with spiders, the giant sort that made their home in the forest depths. Eideann hated spiders, particularly giant ones, and shuddered as a few dropped from the tall ceilings at the promise of food.

Shale hated spiders as well, and squashed them. Eideann decided she liked Shale a lot more.

The walls were lined with statues that reminded her of those outside Flemeth’s hut deep in the swamps. That unsettled her too. The ruins were like a different planet. Ever since Duncan had appeared in Highever, things had been strange. She wished, not for the first time, she could wake up.

And then they heard it, the low growl in the distance at the bottom of the steps that echoed up to them.

She froze, listening, a sound she had never heard before, and then looked back.

“I think there’s something ahead,” Alistair said quietly.

“That smell,” Zevran said beside her, wrinkling his nose. “We’re definitely approaching some kind of lair.” Eideann tightened her grip on her sword, the dagger still held somewhat loose in her hand. And she took the final two steps down.

The chamber beyond was massive. And empty.

And then a burst of hot flame shot right for her.

“Look out!” Alistair cried, and someone shoved her aside. Someone else screamed, maybe Leliana? And then her head hit the stone wall and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note about Eleanor and Bryce Cousland:
> 
> The tale about Eleanor being a raider (like her dad) and meeting Bryce during the war to help sink Orlesian ships is actually Dragon Age lore at this point. I think it came out recently in one of the World of Thedas books (which I don't own but occasionally find pieces of). So the background story that Eideann gives including the song she sings is actually lore-approved, which I think just adds to Eideann's character all the more and I felt it needed including, particularly after the little Isabela shout out last chapter. :)
> 
> ~HigheverRains


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shale gets in trouble for helping; Eideann gains some valuable insight from an ancient elf; Alistair, Eideann, Morrigan, and Angus enter the werewolf lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

The yellow-haired one was slumped against the ruin wall, lying in the rubble of the crumbling wall just inside the door. Utterly useless, these squishy things. Its friends were doing battle with some smaller version of the dragon creature the yellow-haired one had wanted to fight before, except for the Elder Mage who was bent over the yellow-haired one with a worried look.

“If there’s blood, don’t touch it,” the guileless one had called before running off, and now only the Elder Mage and the four-legged creature that made too much noise were left by the body. The four-legged creature was licking at the bloodied wound in the yellow hair, and nuzzling its squishy flesh with an annoying whining noise.

The…Qunari, was it? It was doing well, swinging a great big sword about and hacking at the dragon.

Shale had helped in killing the last one, and as this was much smaller felt no real obligation to assist again. The last one was much more terrifying, but even dragons died. Such was the nature of even the hardest squishy things, after all.

The painted elf, Shale suddenly noticed irritably, was trying to hide behind Shale. And that was simply unacceptable.

“So be it. I shall handle this nuisance.” Shale stomped across the floor, ignoring the flame that came hurtling towards it, and slammed its stone hands down hard on the dragon’s back. The creature howled, twisting and roiling, and then the Qunari hacked off its head.

“What in Andraste’s name…?!” one of them was exclaiming, but Shale was not sure which.

The Grey Warden…the guileless one…had hurried over to Wynne to help, and the four-legged beast was whining at him now. The guileless one nudged the creature out of the way, his sword clattering to the stones, and peered at the side of the yellow-haired one’s head with concern.

“Maker’s blood,” he cursed. Shale stared a moment, a little intrigued. When they had first arrived in Honnleath, Shale had not thought the two Grey Wardens very close, but now it seemed that that dynamic had changed. The yellow-haired Grey Warden made sense sometimes, and did not bother Shale overly much. But this one, the guileless one, was tedious at best, always turning red at the slightest provocation, following people around without complaint, and always finding some reason to be talking or laughing or asking foolish questions. What in the world was the impetus for this connection?

“It has become very close with the other Grey Warden,” Shale said, crossing back to them, footsteps resounding through the eaves. The guileless one looked up, confused. No change there then.

“Uh…yes, I suppose I have at that,” he stated simply, dismissively, then sat back on his heels while the Elder Mage moved to do something with magic. Shale felt the crystals flicker.

“What…?” the Elder Mage looked about surprised. “Shale, are your crystals lyrium?”

“I do not know,” the golem replied simply. “My old Master used them to alter the flow of magic. Perhaps that is lyrium?” Either way, what did it matter? The Elder Mage just stared, and Shale turned away abruptly, focusing back on the guileless Grey Warden.

“I find this difficult to comprehend. It is whiny and weak and constantly laughing,” Shale insisted. There must be some reason. What use did the yellow-haired one see? The yellow-haired one was clever and always managed to come to some sort of use for things, so there must be a reason. The guileless Grey Warden raised an eyebrow.

“Then I guess a romance between you and I is completely out of the question?” There was a burst of more magic, and the crystal flared again. Shale pointedly ignored the Elder Mage’s confused look. Magic shimmered blue and soft across the yellow-haired one as the painted elf and the sister came to join them.

“And the attempts at humor. I cannot understand how it is endured.”

“Well maybe you should ask her when she wakes up why she likes me so much instead of bothering me with it,” the guileless one said shortly, one hand touching the four-legged one, the other reaching to the yellow hair again.

“It has a loud mouth. Why its head has not been crushed already is hard to imagine,” Shale stated.

“Or maybe you just happen to figure she likes me a lot more than she likes you.” Shale froze.

“Don’t be foolish.” Shale did not care which of the fleshy creatures liked it and which did not. Shale was a far superior creature already, and they were silly enough to be almost overcome by a little dragon. What nonsense, to assume Shale cared about the yellow-haired Grey Warden’s feelings.

“Yes,” the guileless one said, an odd glint in his eye. “I thought so. Just watch your step or I’m totally telling.” It was laughing at the golem. How unacceptable.

“Shale, I need you to move,” the Elder Mage said suddenly, and Shale happily took the opportunity to put some distance between them. The crystals dimmed a little at the space. Interesting…perhaps the Elder Mage was accidentally using them? That was something that needed to be examined.

The yellow-haired one gave a groan, shifting and bringing a hand immediately up to its head. Its hurt arm. Foolish. It settled back with a sharp hiss, blinking strangely.

“Eideann, are you alright?”

“Maker’s breath, no…what was that?”

“A smaller dragon than last time,” the painted elf smirked. “After doing so well too.” The yellow-haired one glared back.

“Shut up, elf,” it spat angrily, and Shale felt amused at the tone. The painted elf did go quiet, and the sister bent over her.

“You were not burned. Shale pushed you out of the way. You hit the wall rather hard, but Wynne has managed to help with the bleeding.” The yellow-haired one’s eyes stared at Shale then.

“So I have you to thank?”

“Squishy creatures do not play well with fire,” Shale replied simply. “Would it rather I had not saved its life?”

“Maker, no, but your affection is generally dangerous at best,” the yellow-haired one said in a grumpy tone, wincing, still holding its head. “You saving me may very well be the death of me.”

“The thought was appreciated though, Shale,” the Elder Mage said quickly, firmly. Shale was fairly certain the Elder Mage thought it was some sort of pacifying figure in the group of odd squishy misfits. The Elder Mage was wrong.

“At least you are awake,” the sister said to the Grey Warden.

“You missed the whole fight though,” the painted elf said, getting a final shot in.

“Zevran, go make yourself useful,” the yellow-haired one snapped, and the painted elf smirked, then stalked off across the tall-ceilinged chamber towards the mass of gold coins and artefacts gathered together by the dragon. Apparently dragons kept hoards.

“Darkspawn, abominations, undead, werewolves, dragons, and now golems all out to get me,” the yellow-haired one muttered bitterly. “I shall be lucky if I last another week.” The guileless one helped the Grey Warden to rise, though it was shaky on its feet.

“Well, if you do go down, the world will go with you, so do try your best to stay standing the next time Shale tries to save you?” the guileless one said grimly. The yellow-haired one sighed, walking unsteadily. Squishy things were so delicate.

“Is there any way out of this chamber? The others had all collapsed?”

Shale turned, footsteps echoing again, in the direction of the painted elf who called back.

“It’s blocked off, but perhaps our golem friend can get through?” Shale sighed, storming over.

“Golem, break down that wall,” it muttered angrily, then set to work. Thankless flesh-creatures. Why did Shale even bother?

***

Eideann’s head was throbbing, and her vision a little blurry, but she was not burned, that much was true, and she was sure somewhere in there she should be thinking about how it was the thought that counted…or something. But really, had the damn golem thought it was doing her a favor, bashing her brains out against the wall. Now she was injured in both head and shoulder. She was just missing knees and toes.

Her wooziness made their progress slow going, and that was perhaps for the best, because once Shale had managed to break through into the lower ruins, what they found was the sort of thing she had no desire to see. A ghostly boy was watching them from the end of the collapsed tunnel, pointed ears sticking through short hair. And when he saw them, he took off running, shouting something in a language she did not know, and would guess was elven if her head did not hurt so much.

There were more dead here, as if there had been a terrible battle and the remains were strewn across the temple ruins. Some wore the strange armor from the ones before. Others had arrows still lodged in their creaking, skeletal joints. And the demons that possessed them had access to the Fade through the weakened Veil, meaning magic was possible, and it was dark magic.

Morrigan was at her side then, holding her back from the fighting, for no good reason, because they really did need all their fighters.

“Don’t waste your strength here,” was all she would say, and that was worrying enough. If Morrigan was concerned…

It was slow going, even with Alistair, Sten, and Shale pushing their way through the undead while Leliana and Zevran covered them from the back. Wynne looked exhausted, probably from continually having the heal Eideann who felt guilty enough about that to ignore her throbbing head and continue on carefully.

The chambers further in shows signs that people once lived there. Some held shelves or old chests. Others, though, were the home of stone sarcophagi, and Eideann steered clear of them as they slowly made their way towards the end. At least there were no more dragons.

But there were more spiders. Eideann hung back as Morrigan threw up a barrier and effectively cut their team in half. She would have had sharp words to say, had she been able to think of any. Instead, Shale and Sten finished off the massive spiders, and then Alistair wandered in their direction with a worried look.

“Are you alright?” he asked her, fixing her with a steady stare. She tried to meet it, then sighed. It made her dizzy even to close her eyes.

“No not really,” she finally said.

“Alright, enough,” Leliana called, taking charge without warning at that admission. “If you keep on, you’ll be in the way, Eideann.” Eideann sighed, wincing at the pain and then forcing it all away.

“We can’t stop. We have to get to the lair,” she said forcefully.

“No.” Leliana pushed her down into a seat against the corridor wall, shaking her head firmly. “Even if we get there, what good will it do us. You’re only half here.” Eideann leaned back into the wall, tilting her head up to stare at the ceiling.

“If I fall asleep,” she admitted, “I might not wake up.”

“You will,” Wynne said quietly. “I promise.” Eideann decided to trust the woman, since she’d specifically gone looking for a healer to the Circle of Magi, and that was precisely the result she had gotten. “Rest awhile, and I shall as well, and then we can take another look at that head.”

“We can scout ahead,” Leliana said firmly, and Eideann did not have the strength to argue, so she raised a hand and waved it halfheartedly.

“Don’t go too far,” she said with effort. “And go in pairs at least.” She was still giving orders. She had to.

“It appears to have taken more damage than I initially thought,” Shale said in a voice that hurt Eideann’s head to hear it.

“I’ll be fine. Just knocked silly, and I was losing blood anyway.” She thought of her shoulder, bandaged but in no way healed, and grimaced. “Remind me to never try to talk to werewolves again after this?” The golem just made a grumpy noise and then fell silent and still, watching. It was perhaps just as well, because it was not going to get any quieter if Shale started stomping around again.”

“Alright, let’s go and see what we can find. There may be something…” Alistair said, shooting her a final worried look. Then he looked to Shale. “Make sure Wynne and Eideann are alright.” Then he turned to the others. “The rest of us can head further down the corridor. If there are side rooms, Leliana and I will look into them, otherwise we stay together and stay close.” Leliana nodded. Morrigan crossed her arms, then sighed and acquiesced. Zevran shifted, looking back at Eideann.

“Stay here, _Bella_ ,” he said with his usual charm. “We shall be back for you when we know the way is clear.”

“Be careful,” Eideann said to him and Alistair both. “You two are still a little injured yourself.”

“This?” Zevran flexed his burned arm, the skin healing well under Wynne’s care. “This is nothing, _Bella_ , but it is nice to know you care.” He flashed her a grin which she did not even have the energy to glare away, and then they were off. Eideann sank back, trying to keep her mind working, but she was dizzy and distracted and her head and shoulder hurt.

Maker, what a mess.

“You took a pretty hard blow,” Wynne said quietly, looking at her head with worried blue eyes. Eideann shook her head carefully, and instantly regretted it.

“Well, you know, that’s what happens when you head-butt a stone wall, I suppose.” She was lucky she had not had her brains dashed out. “Shale, please don’t ever save me like that again.” The golem just made a disgruntled noise and Eideann sighed.

At least there was some time to think now. She still did not trust herself to sleep, despite Wynne’s promise, so she focused instead.

The corridor was filled with rubble and the remains of spiders, both their webs and their bodies. But among the rubble were odd artifacts. Ancient smashed pottery, the remains of a wicker basket, and a shattered statue. She considered each carefully and slowly, as if it would give her any hints, and learned nothing. The walls seemed like they may have been Tevinter, but then again they were not, and it was definitely elven statues that lined the walls, not Tevinter. There was a woman bearing a sword, and another holding a golden bowl that was filled with fire. Eideann considered them, wondering who they were, if anyone. And she came up short.

When had the elves built cities? She knew that under Andraste the slaves had been freed and granted the lands of the Dales in southern Orlais for their loyalty. That promise lasted only a short time, and the Orlesians invaded the Dales, driving the Dalish out. The nomadic tribes were all that was left, and even they had little access to all that had been forgotten by time. There was only one great city she knew of: Arlathan. It had been sunk by Tevinter blood magic, they said, before the first fall of the empire when the elves had been made slaves to the Imperium. Did that mean this temple was as old as ancient Arlathan? Or was it newer, something different. Whatever the case, it was pre-Andraste, and that made it something very odd to stand in. Such ancient structures were not unheard of in Ferelden. The Circle Tower was built by the Alamarri, and there were keeps and fortresses in ruins already all over the land. Elven ruins were different though, something strange and unlikely. Here, in the heart of the forest, something had happened. The crypts and sarcophagi had worried her, because the place did not feel like a burial ground. It felt like a war zone. Several wars perhaps. She did not like any of them.

Her eyes caught a small red crystal laying in the dust, and she carefully reached towards it, shifting slowly until her fingers brushed its smooth surface. She gathered it up, seeing it glint in the firelight, and cupped it in both hands to study it.

It felt warm to touch, which was unexpected. It was not a crystal at all, she realized, but a vial, and within was something red like blood. She dropped it, staring, and then when nothing happened, she considered it carefully.

“A phylactery?” Wynne was watching her. Eideann glanced to her a moment, then reached to take it up again. She felt a low vibration from it, as if it were humming, and held it up so Wynne could see. The woman narrowed her eyes and considered it a moment. “It is the essence of a mage, kept magically preserved. If that is all it is however, I would be surprised.” Eideann narrowed her gaze and held it up. It glinted again.

And then the humming got a little louder, and suddenly she felt sick to her stomach. Her head span, and her mind went blank, and she stared, helpless a moment, as she was transported somewhere deep within her mind. She remembered things, things that had never happened to her, and her head was pounding from the pain. The pain kept her grounded. She knew this was an intrusion. Her hand tightened about the phylactery.

“What is this?” It felt like someone was watching her. She realized that something was within that phylactery, something stirring at her touch. It was aware of her, as she was aware of it, and in her pounding head there was a rush of images. Prisons, cages, chains, tight spaces, darkness, deep depths, fear, always fear, the feeling of fear, and emptiness, nothingness, loneliness, images and feelings that bombarded her until she could barely stand it. Between her head, her blood loss, and this barrage of feelings and images not her own, she was almost sick on the floor. She bent over, willing it back, and closing her eyes. It only made her more dizzy, but at least she could focus on the cut crystal vial in her hands then.

“I’m sorry! I did not mean to frighten you!” she thought desperately, and suddenly the images were gone, the fear and the darkness and the emptiness. With the easing of the images and feelings, she felt her stomach settle, even as her pain became more acute. Wonderful, because a headache was not enough. She tried to let the phylactery go again.

 _Stay…_ It was a feeling, or a voice in her head more than a true sound. She was startled, but she tightened her grip and focused on it. A Life Gem. The words came to her unbidden, rising from knowledge that was not her own. The presence within was old, ancient. It had lay dormant for centuries, perhaps millennia.

“What is your name?”

It had none. Not that it remembered. But it was an elf once. A picture rose in her head, a shadow clad in silver armor, standing strong amidst a misty backdrop of nothing. Whatever the image had once been was gone now. But there was something, and she had that at least.

“You were an elf?” Not just an elf. _A mage._ “What is this place? What happened here?” She waited, and slowly the images changed. It was like watching someone flip through the pages of a book full of pictures half finished. Some made sense, some did not. It seemed like the presence had lost many of the memories over the centuries. But what it did give her was intriguing enough that for a moment she forgot about her head.

She saw the temple, peaceful and empty, calm and sturdy. It was a place where the elves came to sleep. To sleep forever.

“They died?”

 _No. Not dead. Uthenera, just slumbering._ Eideann filed the information away. _Others came to pray to the gods there_. So it truly had been a temple of sorts. But then there was war…when it began or what it had been about, she could not tell. The feeling of darkness came back over her and she shuddered.

Wynne was watching her with concerned eyes, but Eideann was looking through her, beyond her, into nothing and what lay between.

“Was this a war with humans?” Eideann wondered. “How did you end up in this gem?” She had been expecting something more coherent, but what she had gotten instead was a dark and menacing something, blurry and unintelligible. Both humans and elves fled from it in terror. The presence, the elf, within the Life Gem had fled its own body into the gem to save itself. But no one had ever come to save it. Eideann felt a sense of dread settle over her. Her fingers loosened a little, and the presence within the gem flared a little, panicking.

 _Wait!_ Eideann froze, feeling its panic, and willed herself to calm. _I will give you all I have, the last of my memories, in exchange for one thing._ Eideann’s mind jumped to a trap, but the presence within the Life Gem immediately rebuffed such thoughts. _Oblivion_.

“How?” Eideann asked.

 _Break the Life Gem, let my essence slip away into the Beyond._ Eideann considered it, because it could really be anything. And then, finally, she decided. Whatever memories the being had meant little to her, but she had no idea what useful things were buried within. Either way, what really mattered was that this had once been a person, living and breathing, fled into the gem to save themselves from an unknown and terrifying evil. That worried her more. What evil was it that they had not heard of it now? Perhaps she could find out. Perhaps she may need to.

“I will help you,” she said quietly, and then reached for Duncan’s dagger, turning it pommel side down and setting the Life Gem on the stone floor beside her. She was careful then, positioning herself, until she was sure it could be done in one go, and then she brought the pommel of the dagger down hard on the Life Gem, smashing it into the stone. She felt it give, shattering into dust, and the Liquid within evaporated, leaving only red-tinged glass shards. She felt a barrage of hazy and flooded memories, half present, half real, half complete. They buffeted her mind with images of the past, of ancient days, of the temple and the ruins, of the elders than slept in Uthenera, of elven words she could not comprehend, of that dark and shadowy terror. And then the presence was gone, leaving a feeling of joy and euphoria, her headache eased, and she settled back against the wall.

Humans had built the ruins long ago, before the elves came to use it, and they had coexisted, worshipping the elven gods there. Strange, to think that at one point, humans and others lived and worshipped the same. The war had been against something horrible, at least the war that the elf had known. Another had come later, against Tevinter, when the ruins were already wrecked and the Clayne had walked the lands. She knew that much from her own history lessons. But the ruins were here first, long ago, in ages now beyond remembering, and the fragmented memories left her unsettled and perturbed.

“Lady Eideann?” Wynne was watching her with curious eyes, and Eideann glanced over to her. “Your head…” Eideann blinked, then put up a hand and noticed the bleeding had stopped. Whatever that presence was, whatever she had given it, she had been rewarded in turn for the kindness. Her wound was knit shut, still tender but carefully dealt with. She glanced to her shoulder too and found that in a similar state.

A soft laugh escaped her. Well, who said that speaking with ancient spirits was dangerous. The Chantry clearly had no idea what it was talking about. In reality though, she was not sure the cost of freeing such a being, spirit or whatever it was. She had been healed, perhaps not entirely but mostly, and she had the scattered memories of an ancient being to sift through.

She carefully rose, testing her strength, and found herself better than before.

“Can you go on, Wynne?” she asked quietly, and the elderly mage considered it a moment, then nodded and rose as well.

“For a little longer,” she admitted, and Eideann smiled slightly.

“I should like to see how long the others have lasted,” Shale muttered. The crystals on Shale’s shoulders flared a little purple as Wynne’s magic covered Eideann a moment, checking her over.

“Well, you seem much better,” Wynne said quietly, a little amazed. “What was that phylactery?”

“A Life Gem of an ancient elf,” Eideann said, hardly even believing herself. “It had been trapped there for so long, it hardly remembered a thing. It just wanted freedom, to return to the Fade.” Wynne considered it, saying nothing, and Eideann drew a breath. “Come on, let’s catch up with the others before they get into trouble without us.”

The others had not gotten far. A large circular room filled with corpses had been cleared, it was true, but further beyond was a chamber that was decorated with more of the statues for the elven gods.

A smattered of elven words she did not understand rose within her, and she considered it a moment, sure there was something, before pushing it aside. There was something though, and as she approached the others, she realized what it was. The floor was trapped, and the room bore char marks.

“The entire place could go up in flames,” Alistair was saying in an annoyed voice.

“You will need to be more careful,” Leliana replied. And then they looked up. Leliana’s eyes narrowed. “You should be resting,” she told Eideann and Wynne both. Eideann shook her head.

“No, I’m fine.”

“You are injured!” Leliana crossed to her, then took one look at her head. Eideann swung her arm to show her that was fine too. “What? But how?” Eideann shrugged.

“Elf magic,” she said simply, and refused to answer more. “This chamber was a rite of passage, I think. There is a way across.”

“We figured out a little of it,” Leliana told her, turning back to the chamber. “But if we go too far, the place is set on fire.”

“Follow me.” She could remember the steps, as if it were a dance, a ritual of sorts in honor of one of the gods. The memories from the Life Gem showed her some of the way, and the rest she could tell through tracker instincts, Leliana’s advice from what she had worked out alone, and close attention to the scorch marks that marred the stone floors. And then they were through, and they were all staring at her like she had grown an extra head.

“Why do you suddenly know how this temple works, _Bella_?” Zevran asked, eyeing her up suspiciously.

“I told you. Elf magic,” she said. She did not really know how to explain it, and given present company of a Templar, a Qunari who had admitted they leashed their mages, and at least one very devout Chantry sister, she did not want to delve much further into it. Phylacteries were not supposed to hold actual spirits, she was aware. The Chantry used them to track down apostates fleeing the Circles, but if they could actually hold actual spirits…well she was in no position to try and deal with the fallout of that information, so she vehemently refused to tell them more. Morrigan was watching her with a considering gaze, as if she half knew or was trying to work her out. Eideann met it back, look clear and fierce, and the Witch stopped staring after that.

There was an Arcane Horror within the next chamber, which seemed to be a laboratory of some sort. The Laboratory was old though, but not as ancient as the temple itself. It smacked of Tevinter artifacts, proving they were not the first to get so far in. If the mage that had fallen here was of Tevinter, it explained why the place seemed half familiar. Whatever experiments were being done were lost when the mage had died, however, and the spirit that now inhabited its body was wild and fierce. Alistair went into Templar mode and started smiting things again, which made it easier for Eideann to test if her shoulder really was back to normal. She went with the dagger first, but found her old balance was back, and so she tested out her sword and found her usual speed was almost returned, and her strength was much better. She was still slower than she liked, but a sword was better than a dagger for her fighting style, and so she was at least glad of that fact. She thought of the presence within the gem and thanked it within her own head. It had helped more than she knew.

But if she thought that would make the rest of the ruin easy to navigate, she was wrong. What they found at the end of their path was a flooded area, filled with dark and murky water, with no way to go forward. Wynne needed another rest then, so Eideann called a stop, and sat there considering the dark waters with a grim look.

Leliana dug through their packs and began passing out bread and cheese, the last of their rations brought south. The bread was going stale, but other than that it was acceptable fare, so they all ate their way through the remains, except Shale, and pondered the next steps.

“We’re going to have to swim, aren’t we?” Alistair said despairingly, coming to join her beside the dark flooded steps.

“There are stairs and another level, but yes, we will have to swim.” She knew from those memories what was down there now, and she did not like it. She did not want to swim through the old crypts where the Elders slept. And she had absolutely no intention of telling the others that was what that was. “We won’t all have to go.”

“What do you mean?” Eideann looked up at them then, considering who she should take, and settled on a simpler solution.

“The werewolves,” she told them, “clearly do not get to their lair by swimming every time they feel like going home.” That was an obvious statement, but apparently one that half the group had not considered. Leliana was waiting for more, but Zevran was blinking, intrigued, and Sten just narrowed his eyes. “That means there is another way in. A shorter way. A better way. It’s obvious they have not been down here, where the dead are walking, so that is the way most of us should go.” She looked to Shale. “Also, Shale is not going to do well swimming.” The golem gave her a flat look.

“So, what? We go back?” Leliana asked. “After we came all this way?”

“No. Just most of us. I’m still swimming through that tunnel. And I’m taking two of you with me, and my dog.” She looked to Angus who was laying down with his head on his paws at her feet. “The rest of you will go back to the entrance and try to find the other way in. The werewolves had probably blocked it, but Shale just managed to break through a mountain, so I don’t imagine it will be too difficult to get through once you find it. I will go on, and hopefully talk some sense into the creatures before this gets worse. The rest will play back-up.”

“Who is going with you?” Sten asked simply, watching her.

“Alistair,” she said simply, earning a curse from him, “and Morrigan.”

“What?!” Morrigan’s look was fierce. “You wish me to swim my way to a werewolf lair? Why?”

“Because I need a mage, and Wynne won’t be able to do it,” Eideann said simply. “I need a mage in case there really is some spirit behind all this.”

“You have very high demands of me,” the Witch said archly.

“You ask very big favors,” Eideann said in return, and the Witch sighed, backing down.

“So the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden are going to swim through a dark tunnel with a dog and a Witch,” Alistair said flatly.

“You like when she swims,” Zevran quipped, testing his bowstring. He did not even have the decency to look up for Alistair’s reaction.

“Oh shut up,” the Templar sniffed, then drew a deep breath. “I’ll follow you,” he said to Eideann, “but I think this is a mistake.”

“Objection noted,” Eideann said simply, then glanced to Morrigan. “When we go in, there will be steps. We will want to go straight on towards the next steps going up. Don’t turn off course. It won’t be a long swim, unless you do turn off, in which case you will drown.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Elf – “

“Elf magic, of course,” Alistair said darkly. “What elf magic?”

“Never you mind. Just trust me. I’ve not gotten you killed yet,” Eideann said.

“There’s time,” he replied back frankly. Then he sighed. “Alright, and the others?”

“Once you find the entrance, try and break through, but don’t head into the lair unless you hear a whistle. That will be the signal. Otherwise, if you don’t hear from us at all for half an hour, assume we’re dead and kill Witherfang.”

“If you are dead, what good is an army against the Blight?” Eideann pulled the treaties from her tabard and passed them to Leliana.

“The Grey Wardens of Orlais know there is a Blight. They were stopped at the border, Sidonie said, but they won’t stay put while there’s an Archdemon to kill. They will need this army as much as we do. If Alistair and I die, you get to Orlais, Jader is the closest, and you tell them about all of this: Soldier’s Peak, Ostagar, Loghain, all of it. If Orlais has to invade Ferelden to stop a Blight, so be it.” Admitting that left a bitter taste in her mouth, but there were worse things than foreign occupation. The Orlesians at least let Ferelden live. The Blight would destroy them all. Leliana’s hand closed on the treaties and she gave a serious nod. Then Eideann looked to Wynne. “If we die, get to the Circle and tell them those treaties are for all Grey Wardens, not just us. The agreement is not broken until all Grey Wardens are dead. And Maker forbid that ever be the case.” Then she drew a breath, looking to Morrigan, then to Alistair.

“Alright, everyone ready?” Morrigan gave a grim glare, then turned her head away. Alistair just gave an annoyed nod. “Angus,” she said and the dog leaped up, panting, “with me.” He fell into step with her, and Eideann moved towards the blackened water, grimacing. Whatever was in that water did not bear thinking about. It was a short swim, she knew. So she went straight in, gritting her teeth against the frigid water, and then when her head was beneath the surface everything was muted and black.

***

He was never going to forgive her for making him do this. In fact, he was just never going to forgive her for a lot of things. He decided, when his head at last broke the surface of a longer-than-expected desperate swim, that there were enough dead things in that water to last a lifetime, and she had known they would be there and deliberately did not tell him, and that was all unacceptable.

Eideann was sitting on the side on the flagstones out of the water, emptying out her boots. Her short hair was plastered to her head, and she was grimacing. Angus had shook his fur off, splattering water across the room.

Behind him, Morrigan emerged from the water too, coughing and spluttering and hauling herself up, adjusting her clothing and looking disgusted.

“Undead?!” she demanded, putting words to his own thoughts. “You knew that was a crypt, and you sent us down there anyway?” Eideann gave them both a flat look.

“We didn’t have the time to go back,” she said simply, “and there is no guarantee the others can even get through.” She wrung out her tabard and then slipped it back over her head, buckling the belt over the top and resheathing their swords.

“I’m not going a step further,” the Witch said, “until you tell us how you knew about it.”

“I found an ancient elf in a phylactery, and I set it free in exchange for its memories. Seemed like a better idea than floundering around. Also, it healed my head. Don’t let Shale save me again, by the way.” She pulled her boots back on as if that was a perfectly acceptable explanation.

“A spirit in a phylactery? Blood magic? How do you know it wasn’t a demon?!”

“It was in my head,” Eideann said, and that made even less sense. “And all that I’ve done since is follow what it gave me about the Temple. That passage used to lead to the crypts were the Elders slept in Uthenera.” Now she was using words he did not understand. Alistair grimaced, then shook his head. 

“Other than the opportunity to go swimming with me again, I can’t see why we could not go around too?”

“It’s time to tell you what I think is going on here,” she said firmly, and he blinked.

“What? You couldn’t tell the others?” Eideann shook her head. He found himself exchanging glances with Morrigan of all people, and sank down into a seat to listen as the Witch started up a fire to dry them off a little. The room they were in seemed sealed and safe enough, though the scent of dog hung in the air, and it was not just Angus. “Why couldn’t you tell them?” 

“Because I don’t think Sten or Leliana or Wynne wants to deal with blood magic, and Zevran is angry we did not just immediately help the elves.” Blood magic? Where had she gotten that idea from? And what was she doing with ancient elven phylacteries anyway? Maker’s breath, he had no idea what sort of things she would be up to next, and that scared him. 

“What is it then?” Morrigan asked, leaning forward over the fire that suddenly flooded the room with warmth. Eideann sighed. 

“The werewolves are cursed, and the curse comes from Witherfang, who has existed a long time, if the elves are to be believed,” she said simply. “But the werewolves outside the ruins said to protect the Lady. Swiftrunner called Witherfang a he, but said this is where they come to be beloved, to get their names. So there is something strange with Witherfang and this Lady. Not only that, but these werewolves are not as Zathrien said. They talk, they are not mindless, and Swiftrunner did not attack us earlier in the forest, only when we crossed the barrier. Neither did Danyla. That means they have self-control.” She narrowed her gaze, scrubbing at Angus’s fur to dry him off with friction. “Zathrien seemed convinced that they were mindless beasts, or he wants us to think they are, and when I asked how the curse began he would not tell us, evaded the question. He has a plan to cure this curse in his own people, which involves this Witherfang’s heart. We already decided Witherfang is some sort of spirit, to live so long and be so powerful, and that spirits can corrupt the bodies of people. That’s what happened in the tower with abominations. But it only happened because of blood magic. Why would Zathrien know so much about this curse, or want to cure it in his own people by sacrificing a spirit and using its heart, if this was not in some way blood magic? If these werewolves are sentient, then killing them to cure others _is_ blood magic. Zathrien is intimately involved in all this, he just would not tell us how, and I think it is because of the magic at its center. The spirit, Witherfang, did not make werewolves before. Did the spirit even exist before? I do not know. But Zathrien does. He just isn’t saying.” 

“You think he was involved?” Alistair asked, confused. “The old Keeper?” 

“Yes. Or else none of this makes any sense.” 

“Not everything has to make sense, Eideann,” he said simply. She fixed him with a look.

“If you look hard enough for the motivations, everything makes sense. That does not mean it is excusable. That is why I think there is a true and better way to end this curse. I think blood magic began it. I think there is a better way to end it.” Morrigan was silent, considering, and then finally nodded.

“I agree the Keeper was evading our questions,” she said softly, “and even that the werewolves have self-control.” Her yellow eyes narrowed and she looked up. “I do not see what will stop us from being killed by them before we reach the center of their lair. And that is why I do not understand this self-sacrificial plan to march right into the chambers they occupy and make demands.” 

“They won’t kill us,” Eideann said simply. 

“You seem awfully sure of that,” Alistair said flatly. He reached to pet the panting Angus, and shook his head. “I think it more likely we are killed before we get to Witherfang or this Lady.”

“This is the place they come to learn their names.” Eideann’s voice was cryptic. “This is the place where they are beloved. It is here, under all of the weight of everything that means, that Witherfang must display control. Out in the forest, Witherfang is wild and dangerous. Here…here Witherfang must show restraint. They could have killed us upstairs, swarmed us. Instead they vanished into their lair and locked the door tight to keep us out. They will not fight us here unless they must. And I do not think they will want to. By making it this far, we have proven we are not the agents of Zathrien. The situation is delicate now, but I truly believe that now is the best chance we have of solving this peacefully.” 

“You’re a fool,” Morrigan sighed, shaking her head. “We will all die, thanks to you.” 

“Well, at least we prepared for that,” Eideann said, rising and brushing off her damp clothes before drawing her swords. “Come on, It’s time to see if I am right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to Expotwo for reading all three books so far and leaving me kudos on each! Thank you for sticking with me through the story, and I hope you continue to enjoy it! ~HigheverRains


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann meets the Lady of the Forest and has to make a decision; Leliana sings a song; Eideann opens up to Alistair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, mention of rape (Zathrien's daughter)
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

Eideann’s guess that the werewolves would avoid them seemed to be correct. In fact, the lair itself held none of the undead that had haunted the other reaches of the ruins, meaning there had definitely been a werewolf presence where they were to have cleared them all out. But there were no wolves now, and their footsteps echoed in the ancient chambers.

The whole place stank of dog, and it was not Angus. He plodded beside her, keen ears twitching, but he was focused at the end of the hall.

And he was right. Eideann pushed open the door and saw another room with a central platform, and atop it was a group of werewolves, waiting.

She drew up her courage, trying to stop herself from shaking, and stepped down into the chamber. The snarls and howls that rippled through the air left no doubt in her mind that these were dangerous creatures. They were not led by Swiftrunner this time, but by another wolf, the one that had shouted before the ruins to protect the Lady. Eideann’s eyes narrowed slightly as she crossed to join the creature on the dais in the center of the room, holding her fear apart from herself.

Her shoulder ached a little.

The wolf in the center turned on its siblings with an angry growl.

“Stop! Brothers and sisters, be at ease!” And they listened, backing down slowly. Morrigan and Alistair joined her, Morrigan with her arms crossed, Alistair flexing his fingers on his sword. Beside her, Angus gave a low growl deep in his throat. Eideann calmed him with a gentle touch on the back of his neck.

The werewolf considered her, black eyes boring into her, points of light at their center, fierce and frightening.

 _It was a human once, or an elf. It could be again,_ she told herself. She had to believe that. She needed that as a constant reminder.

“We do not wish anymore of our people hurt,” the creature told her. “I ask you this now, outsider. Are you willing to parlay?” Eideann simply stared at him, unimpressed, because of course she was, she had been all along, and it had taken them this long to bother to recognize it. She still had a bit of a headache, her shoulder was sore, and she was still damp from swimming through flooded burial crypts, not to mention having to slaughter hordes of undead creatures to reach this point. Unimpressed was a generous word really. She did not trust her words. She waved a hand at him to motion him to continue instead. The beast gave a low growl. “I have been sent to you on behalf of the Lady. She believes you are not aware of everything you should be, so she has asked that you are brought to her. She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley is an honest one.” Eideann gritted her teeth.

“So why doesn’t this Lady come and speak to me herself?” she said fiercely. She recognized the notes of her father’s steel in her voice, the tone he had used when confronted with criminals that needed sentencing, or tedious banns bickering over nonsense. The wolf snarled.

“We would not let her,” he said in a guttural voice. Eideann shook her head, turning her face away a moment. At least this Lady appeared to have more sense than her feral dogs.

“If you were willing to talk,” she said in annoyance, “why didn’t you earlier?” It would have saved them all a lot of trouble on both sides.

“Swiftrunner did not think it would matter,” the wolf replied. “The Lady disagrees.” Seeing as Swiftrunner had already shown himself to be a fool, Eideann decided to see if the Lady could answer her questions instead, as the original partner in these negotiations had been unwilling to do so. Eideann already suspected the Lady was not all she seemed to be, but at last she agreed, because her arm and head were still sore, and she wanted to truth now, and at least this Lady had some rein on her dogs here in their lair.

The werewolves led them to a massive chamber, a great round amphitheater filled with their snarling brethren, lit from the streaming light of the sun born through the crumbling roof. Tree roots grew through the stone walls, branches pressing high against the eaves. Just the sight of sky made Eideann’s spirit lift a little.

The Lady stood in the center, calming her creatures to silence. Her flesh was a soft green, ethereal and strange, and her eyes like charcoal watching them. She was clad only in twisting fines, movement as much a part of her as branches swaying in the wind. Eideann stopped before her, and the Lady closed the distance between them.

“I bid you welcome, mortal,” she said quietly, her voice echoing like the voice of the demons within the Circle of Magi. Eideann went on edge, but did not move. “I am the Lady of the Forest,” she said. A spirit then. It seemed that her guess had not been far off. She was glad for Morrigan’s presence then, if nothing else.

“So you’re what the werewolves had been keeping down here,” Eideann said flatly. She crossed her arms and watched as the Lady moved across the center of the room, considering them all.

“They come to me, and I remain with them, it is true,” she replied, “but I am no prisoner.” There was a snarl and then one of the wolves bounded forward, putting itself between Eideann and the Lady of the Forest. Swiftrunner. His bronze fur was bristling.

“Don’t trust her! She will betray you!” he snapped. Eideann met his eyes with her own, daring him to make another mood. She was in no great mood herself for trust and patience.

But the Lady came forth, brushing her vined fingers into the bronze fur, and Swiftrunner sank back.

“Hush, Swiftrunner,” she said softly, in a voice like the wind. “Your desire for battle has only led to the deaths of the very ones you wanted to protect. Is that what you want?” He cowed.

“No, Lady.”

“Then the time has come to speak with this outsider and set our rage aside.” Her black eyes slid to Eideann then, fixing on her. “I apologize on Swiftrunner’s behalf. He struggles with his nature.” She sighed. “No doubt you have questions, mortal. There are things that Zathrien has not told you.” Eideann raised her chin and stared back.

“Such as?”

“It was Zathrien who creatued the curse that these creatures suffer,” the spirit said quietly, “the same curse that Zathrien’s own people now suffer. Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to this land, a tribe of humans lived close to this forest. They sought to drive the Dalish away. Zathrien was a young man then. He had a son and a daughter he loved greatly, and while out hunting the human tribe captured them both.” The spirit turned away, circling about them carefully, slowly, considering them.

“The humans…tortured the boy,” Swiftrunner said, “killed him. The girl they raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, but she learned later she was…with child. She killed herself.” His voice held an old ache, an old misery. Eideann’s gaze flickered to him, then back to lady.

“And Zathrien cursed them,” Eideann said, filling in the missing piece. The Lady of the Forest nodded her head once. Swiftrunner drew closer, his frightening eyes fixed on Eideann.

“Zathrien came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit,” he told her, “binding it to the body of a great wolf. So Witherfang came to be.” Eideann’s eyes slipped to the Lady then, great spirit of all of the Brecilian Forest. And the vines that twined up her flesh were not unique. She had seen them before, on the white fur of the wolf that had wounded her shoulder. Swiftrunner gave snarl. “Witherfang hunted the humans of the trube. Many were killed, but others were cursed by his blood, becoming twisted and savage creatures.” The blood of bound spirits could twist the bodies of mortal men.

“Twisted and savage,” the Lady said simply, “just as Witherfang himself is.” Eideann turned to face her, and the spirit met her eyes again, knowingly. “They were driven into the forest. When the human tribe finally left for good, their cursed brethren remained, pitiful and mindless animals.”

“Until I found you, my Lady. You gave me peace,” Swiftrunner said, dropping down to his knees. Eideann glanced to him again, then around at the other wolves. How many centuries had their lived like this? How many cursed lives had been lost? Which of them had been involved in the attack on Zathrien’s children?

The Lady knotted her fingers together, vined hands twining together like the branches of a tree.

“I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature. I soothed his rage, and his humanity emerged. And he brought others to me.” So Swiftrunner was the first of them to regain that humanity, to earn his name. His loyalty was earned.

“Why did you ambush the Dalish then?” Eideann at last said, and the Lady bent her head a little.

“We seek to end this curse. The crimes committed against Zathrien’s children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead. Word was sent to Zathrien every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come, but he ignored us,” she said. There was a touch of anger in her now that made Eideann think of Witherfang. “We will no longer be denied.”

“So we spread the curse to his people! So he must end the curse to save them!” Swiftrunner snarled.

“Please, mortal.” The Lady’s black hair was hiding her eyes. “You must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight, surely he will agree to end the curse.”

Eideann turned her back then, walking back between Morrigan and Alistair, arms crossed. It was difficult to think surrounded by enemies, but she had to. Alistair’s eyes were watching her, Morrigan was eyeing up the wolves. Angus stayed put, whining at her from where he sat on the cracked stone floor, his head tilted to one side.

All she knew of Zathrien told her this was something he would never agree to do. The way his lip had curled when he saw Angus, she did not think him seeing the werewolves was going to make him change his mind about anything. Zathrien’s whole clan hated both the humans and the werewolves, Zathrien especially. But Eideann wanted to break the curse to save both of them, and now she knew that only Zathrien could. He had sent her for the heart because he did not want to break the curse, knew that he was the one who could. He had given her his answer in advance. How then to change his mind? And should she even try?

What had happened to his children was abhorrant. Eideann forced herself into his side, made herself understand what he felt. If it had been her family…she thought of Arl Howe and closed her eyes. Did she want every estranged cousin of the Howe’s dead for what the Arl had done? Peace came from weighing justice.

No. It would make her no better than him. She opened her eyes slowly, then looked back over her shoulder to the Lady, her face somber.

“I will bring him,” she said quietly. Somehow. If she had to drag him there herself. To punish a horrific crime with centuries of curses on innocents…that was no justice. And that did not respect the memory of his son and daughter. Now his own clan was threatened by his vengeance. She would make him see.

“Tell him,” the Lady added quietly, “that if he does not come, I will ensure Witherfang is never found. His people will never be cured.” Such ultimatums may yet prove necessary, but Eideann had no intention of telling the Keeper such a thing. Negotiation was a tricky sort of business. Threats did not bring peace.

The Lady directed them up a long set of stairs that climbed towards the surface, and Eideann realized this was the route that the werewolves took to the forest. Somewhere at the top the others should be waiting, or so she hoped. The ruins were mostly clear of trouble by now.

There were too many steps to climb after such a long walk, but Eideann was determined to show her strength here, so she took them all without faltering, even though it made the muscles in her legs burn and her head hurt more. When at last they reached the top, and one of the werewolves cleared the way for them to pass, she was exhausted and panting almost as much as Angus for the climb.

She did not like the idea of travelling all the way back to the camp to find Zathrien, who would be defended by his people if she tried to bring him by force. But she was lucky. She did not have to.

At the top of the steps, near the ruin entrance, she found Leliana with her bow drawn, standing watching Zathrien with guarded eyes. Zevran was sitting further up on the roots of the great tree that had grown over the steps, his eyes flat and his expression grim. Sten had his arms crossed, and Shale bristled with magic.

“Ah, there you are. We waited, like you said,” Leliana told them as they approached. “Look who we found following us in. Awfully suspicious of him, don’t you think.”

“And here you are already,” Zathrien said in a curt tone, shooting Leliana a dark look. He sounded like he had simply been waiting for them to finish. Eideann met his gaze firmly.

“Somehow I figured I’d find you near here,” she told him simply. Zathrien was centuries old. He had had time enough to learn how to understand words that went unsaid. He glared at her, and his mouth twisted slightly upward.

“Did you,” he said quietly, dangerously. “Aren’t you the intuitive one? There was no way to tell what would happen when you reached this ruin, so I decided to come myself.” Eideann was almost entirely positive he had come to make sure they were dead too for their knowledge of the curse so far. She crossed her arms and nodded to Leliana who lowered her bow.

“We need to talk, you and I.” Zathrien looked away.

“Yes, there will be plenty of time for that,” he told her dismissively. “Did you acquire the heart?”

“No.” Anger flickered through his gaze. “I didn’t.”

“May I ask then why are you leaving the ruin?” As if they were his lackeys doing work at his command. Eideann schooled her features to calm, raising her chin a little to fix him with a look she could only hope was haughty and commanding.

“So you knew about this ruin. I wonder then why you did not tell us exactly where to go in the first place?” She knew this dance, the dance around a secret no one wanted to put voice to first. Alistair shifted beside her.

“Oh someone kill someone already,” Shale grumbled. Eideann ignored her, and Zathrien gave a sneer.

“There was no need,” he told her. “I knew you would find it. But it seems the _spirit_ \-- ” he said it like it was a filthy word – “has convinced you to act on her behalf. May I inquire what she wants?” Eideann felt a ripple of anger go through her. She never did have the patience for such things. She forced herself to find it, and gave Zathrien a pointed look.

“What is it you _think_ she wants?” she asked him.

“To survive I suspect,” he spat. “You do understand that she actually _is_ Witherfang?”

“Yes, I thought as much.” Eideann caught the small note of surprise from Wynne and Zevran.

“She is the powerful spirit I bound in the body of the wolf. Her nature is that of the forest itself: serene and wild, beautiful and savage. She is Witherfang and the Lady both. The curse came first from her.” Eideann shook her head.

“The curse came first from _you_ ,” she said firmly. He had no defense except excuses. And he made them.

“They attacked my clan! They deserve to be wiped out, not defended!”

“You made the monster, Zathrien. Are you surprised that it now bites your hand?” He glared at her, then looked away angrily.

“Come then. I will accompany you back to the ruin. I will force her into Witherfang’s form. He may then be slain and the heart taken.” Eideann shook her head.

“We’re not going to help you do that,” she said, and her voice rang with authority that echoed into the eaves. His eyes burned with anger as he turned back to her, Dalish tattoos creasing over a furrowed brow.

“If you do not help me, my hunters are not cured, and you get no assistance against the darkspawn!” he spat. The argument was of course that she must do anything to end the Blight. But she was not so cold-hearted. She had a choice here. And she meant to take it, damn the rest. She exchanged a look with Alistair then, and read the question in her. _Can we do this without them? Can we do what is right as well as what is necessary?_ And he nodded. Eideann turned back to the Keeper.

“You can at least meet with them.” He stared at her, and then his eyes scanned the room full of her companions, and he at last relented.

Eideann pointed down the steps, and he went, and all the others followed.

Eideann watched the proud man stride across the floor, purposeful and angry, and shook her head as she followed. Her eyes found the Lady of the Forest, who was watching with narrowed eyes at his approach. The werewolves bristled and snarled about them, and Eideann watched warily for trouble.

“So here you are, spirit,” Zathrien said sharply, spite and hate in his voice. He stopped in the center of the room where the Lady stood with Swiftrunner and the others, considering him.

“She is the Lady of the Forest! You will address her properly!” the werewolf roared, and Zathrien stared him down with disgust. Eideann glanced to him.

“Swiftrunner...” Her voice was a warning, and the creature backed down with a final snarl in Zathrien’s direction.

“You’ve taken a name, spirit? And you’ve given names to your pets? These…beasts who follow you?”

“It was they who gave me a name, Zathrien. And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them to find who they are,” the Lady said.

“Who they are,” Zathrien shot back, “has not changed from whom their ancestors were. Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only mirrors their monstrous hearts!” Eideann felt the tremor in his voice.

“He will not help us, Lady!” Swiftrunner snarled. “It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!” Eideann’s hand crept to Duncan’s dagger at her belt, but it proved unnecessary.

“No, I am here to talk, though I see little point in it. We all know where this will lead,” Zathrien said. “Your nature compels it, as does mine.” Eideann released the dagger hilt and crossed her arms.

“It does not have to be that way,” the Lady of the Forest said softly. “There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrien. Surely your retribution is spent.” She stood now before the Keeper, close enough to touch, and he stared back, watching her, determined not to bend.

“My retribution is eternal, spirit, as is my pain. This is justice, no more.”

“This is not justice,” Eideann said softly. “And you know it.” Zathrien scowled at her, and the Lady of the Forest gave him a wry look.

“Are you certain your pain is the only reason you will not end this curse? Have you told the mortal how it was created?” she asked him, and Eideann narrowed her eyes.

“I suspect I understand a little already,” she told them both, and Zathrien bowed his head slightly, looking away. The Lady of the Forest watched her carefully.

“This is an old forest, mortal, and I am its spirit, its heart. I was not summoned from across the Veil, but pulled from the trees, the rock, and soil. I was bound to the body of the great wolf, Witherfang. Not possessed, like a sylvan or the undead, but bound into one being.” Eideann listened, a sense of unease inside her, for what she knew was coming next. “Such powerful magic, however,” the spirit said, “could not be accomplished without Zathrien’s blood. The curse and his life are intertwined.” Eideann sighed, bowing her head. She had been hoping in her heart that she had been wrong about the blood magic, though she had not been able to unsee it once she had made the connection between the abominations in the tower and the werewolves. She had desperately wanted this to be something else, some different, older magic.

 _What other magic is there?_ she thought. There was the magic aided by lyrium that the Circle Mages knew, that was born from the connection to the Fade. And then there was the magic of this world, of reality, tied to the power of blood. The Veil was torn where death occurred, where blood was spilled willingly or otherwise. It was blood that made the undead rise, the spirits cross into the living world. That was all Eideann understood of magic, and all she needed to understand. She looked to Zathrien, who refused to meet her eyes.

“Your people,” she heard the Lady say, “believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, Zathrien, but that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you.” Eideann’s lips parted slightly, and she felt a ripple of anger run through her again.

“No, that is not how it is!” the Keeper declared angrily.

“How far will you go for this revenge, Zathrien?” Eideann asked him in a dangerously low voice. He glared at her. But he could not shake that determination now. The curse was _his_ and it was _wrong_ and _he_ had to be the one to fix that.

“I did it for my people!” he declared. Eideann shook her head, seeing through that defense.

“They lay dying of this very curse, and you try to tell me it is for them?”

“Do what you have come here to do, Grey Warden, or get out of my way.” Eideann reached to draw her swords and circled around to put herself between Zathrien and the Lady of the Forest.

“I won’t help you do this,” she told him, and Alistair stepped up to join her.

“We’re standing for what is right here, no matter what,” he said quietly, nodding to her. Zathrien shook with anger.

“Then you will die here!” he cried.

Magic flooded the room, spirits summoned across the Veil into the twisting trees about the chamber. The Lady glowed a bright white and morphed into the great wolf Witherfang at Eideann’s side. More spirits poured forth, demons of rage.

Eideann ignored them all. She went straight for Zathrien, skirting the demons and ducking the tree branches that swung about above. Alistair’s Templar magic blasted through the chamber, knocking back the demons and sylvans and forcing the fight into the physical instead.

And at last Zathrien submitted, and Eideann gripped him by the collar, dragging him back to Witherfang where he fell on his knees. The wolf snarled and then shifted, returning to the form of the Lady, who stood over the Keeper looking sad.

“Finish it! Kill him now!” came the roar of Swiftrunner who bounded forward, but the Lady stopped him, arm outstretched.

“No, Swiftrunner! If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how may we expect there to be room in his?” She looked back to Zathrien who shook his head, still on his knees.

“I cannot do as you ask, spirit. I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children, my people. I…I cannot do it.” Eideann sheathed her blades angrily, glaring down on him.

“Your people are out there! Dying of this curse of yours! Would you really let them die?” she demanded. “For this?” He was their Keeper, but he was no leader. He was a coward, prejudiced and frightened, driven by a rage and a vengeance he had long since lost control of. He was as frightened of these creatures as Loghain was of Orlesians, and how many innocents had to pay in blood for that fear? The Lady was right, that mercy was necessary, but Eideann felt her heart align with Swiftrunner as well. For weeks they had wandered the forests, spent this much time while the Blight ravaged the lands.

“Perhaps,” Zathrien said weakly, “I have lived too long. This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root. It has consumed my soul.” He looked up to the Lady of the Forest then, eyes filled with sorrow, and the memories within Eideann’s head whispered of Uthenera, the long sleep when the world was too sorrowful to bear. “What of you, spirit? You are bound to the curse, just as I am. Do you not fear your end?” The Lady simply stepped forward, carefully helping him to rise to his feet.

“You are my maker, Zathrien. You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life,” she said gently. “Yet of all things I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, maker…put an end to me. We beg you…show mercy.” It was too much for the Dalish Keeper, who bowed his head, staring at the floor.

“You _shame_ me, spirit,” he finally said, his voice quiet and broken. “I am…an old man, alive long past his time.”

“Then you will do it? You will end the curse?” the Lady asked, her voice echoing softly. Zathrien looked to her, meeting her eyes.

“Yes, I think it is time. Let us…let us put an end to it all,” he said. There was a bright glow of magic that swallowed up the center of the room, and Eideann had to close her eyes as it blinded her. She turned her face away, until at last the light subsided, and then when she looked back, the Lady was gone, and Zathrien lay unmoving on the stones.

All about them where werewolves had stood, men and elves stood instead, staring in wonder at their hands and their bodies, at each other. And then one, with reddish hair, looked to them with piercing eyes of dark brown.

“It’s…over…” Eideann recognized Swiftrunner’s voice, even despite the change, and with less snarling. She let out a breath she had not realized she held. “She’s gone, and…we’re human. I can scarcely believe it.” Eideann smiled slightly, but the smile slipped when her gaze fell on Zathrien’s body.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked them, her voice gentle and quiet.

“We’ll leave the forest, I suppose,” he replied, and then reached out his arm to take her own in his. “Thank you. We will never forget you.” The others gave her low bows, and then slowly they filtered towards the steps, and Eideann let them go. Then she looked back to Zathrien’s body and licked her lips.

“We need to take him back to his people,” she said.

“He started all this,” Sten replied angrily. “That body is no longer him.”

“Whatever we may think of him, he was Dalish, and he deserves to have his people deal with him.” She looked up at Shale who gave a low grumble.

“Golem, carry the corpse,” the golem stated viciously before stooping to hoist the Keeper into its arms.

“If we move quickly,” Leliana said, “we could make it back to our old camp by nightfall? I would…rather not stay here.” Eideann nodded, because she felt the same way, and so they went then, determined to leave the ruined temple behind.

They were three days to get back, taking a more direct route now that Eideann’s borrowed memories knew some of the paths that led from the ruins. Even so, the going was difficult, and the woods still wild. There were no more wolves, but they did see a bear once, and it took Morrigan turning into a bear herself and roaring loudly until it left them well enough alone.

Eideann’s head was much better, and her arm, and Zevran and Alistair were doing better as well. They were lighthearted too, because they were making their way out of the darkness of the Brecilian Forest under the oppressive weakness of the Veil, instead of further in.

When they finally reached the Dalish on the third day, there was a bittersweet mood in the air. Mithra, the scout they had met when they first arrived, led them in silence to Zathrien’s First, now the clan Keeper, Lanaya, who accepted Zathrien’s body with the solemnity required and considered them all with large, sad brown eyes.

“It is done,” she told them quietly. “I felt it when he departed.” Her eyes flickered to the body before them, and she sighed. “We bury our dead, return them to the land. We shall need to hold funeral rites for him.”

“Did you know his connection to the curse?” Eideann asked quietly, as the other elves gathered to pay their respects. She was glad to see that among them some of the cursed elves were now healthy again.

“I suspected,” Lanaya admitted gently. She said a thousand words in that simple statement, and Eideann had nothing else to say. The Keeper sighed. “The curse is over. It will be difficult to fill his shoes. But I am Keeper now.” There was steel in her then, that would not bend to adversity. She fixed Eideann with a look. “I swear to uphold the contract with the Grey Wardens. Call and we shall come, with great speed and purpose, and we shall strike at your foes. This I swear.” Eideann nodded, feeling a swell of respect.

“Thank you, Lanaya,” she said quietly, and then departed to allow the Dalish the space to grieve. She climbed the bluff overlooking the river where they had left their horses. The woman who had watched the halla had cared for them while they were gone, so Eideann thanked her as well, and gave her the furs she had collected while hunting. The Dalish always had need of such things, and the gift was accepted well enough.

Leliana climbed the hill to join her, staring out over the lake. Her eyes were sad and she looked tired.

“I gave the scarf to Athras,” she said quietly, and Eideann nodded. “He did not thank us, but he sends his well wishes all the same.” The red-headed bard sighed, looking back at the camp. Night was starting to fall and the others were gathered quietly around the fire, or down at the river. Behind them, fires burned and the elves were still mourning their dead. They gathered about their own fires, huddled in sorrow and also relief, on the eve of preparations for war.

“It was right to do what we did,” Leliana said quietly, “but the loss…” She trailed off, because the words were too much, and all the strangeness of the ruins had left them world-weary and drawn. Leliana sighed, glancing to Eideann. “I am reminded of a song sung to me many years ago. It was when my mother died and this wise elven woman comforted me.” She turned to stare into the fire some distance away. “She told me that we shouldn’t fear death or hate it. Death is just another beginning. One day, we must all shed our earthly bodies to allow our spirits to fly free.” She wet her lips, and Eideann watched her. She thought of her mother and father, of Oren and Oriana, of all the Mages and Templars in the Circle Tower, and of the elves and humans lost here. She thought of Ostagar, and of Flemeth, and the Elders sleeping in Uthenera until their bodies wasted away.

Let the spirit fly free.

“It’s a beautiful sentiment, I think,” Leliana said quietly, “one that brings peace and hope to the grieving.” She looked to Eideann then, and then slowly looked out across the river. And she began to sing.

The words were elven, and the Dalish fell silent to listen and hear, and then they began to join in. Eideann listened, watching in awe, as the entire camp joined, and for a moment time seemed to stop, and all there was were people, alive and joined together in this.

Leliana’s voice was beautiful, classically trained, but it was soon lost in the chorus of all genders and ages, lifting their spirits up towards the twilight sky as darkness fell over them all. The horses were quiet, and everyone listened. And when it was done, there was a hush, and Eideann felt tears in her eyes she hurriedly pushed away.

Leliana considered her, eyes knowing, but said nothing, simply moving away into the night to return to her tent.

But her song had won them the hearts of the Dalish that night.

***

Down there was where they had kissed, down in that river, black and cool in the darkness, glowing only with moonlight and fireflies. At least the taint had not touched it yet, but in time he had no doubt it would. Her words in the forest had been different, a gentle permission to let things go where they would. Whatever was between them would come naturally, and could not be forced. He still did not even know if it was for the best, what with the Blight. Morrigan’s words still haunted him.

But he could remember the fear he had felt when she lay prone against the wall, bleeding, or when Witherfang had sunk his teeth deep into her shoulder. He remembered worrying about her, and he could not control that.

It had been months since Ostagar. He had almost been a Grey Warden for a full year. A few more months and that would be that. Just this past year all had been peaceful, and he had been living in the Grey Warden compound, a small estate in the middle of Denerim’s noble district granted them by King Maric…by his father.

He still had not told her, and soon he would be crossing the line where it would be too late. She was the daughter of a Teyrn, probably a Teyrna herself now, and had as much admitted to him that she would need that title going forward. He was scared to admit his own lineage. What if she saw that as he feared and drew away from him? What if she thought him less because he was some noble bastard? He did not like it one bit.

He watched Eideann going through the saddlebags of her horse in the moonlight, and considered going to her, but he kept his seat. There would be time on the road to tell her, to find a way to break the news without forcing her to change her entire opinion of him. But it felt like a lie to go without saying a word. She said Cailin had told her to look after him, which was odd because she had never really questioned that to him, and because Cailin had never really seemed to care. He did not want coddling or looking after. He was a Grey Warden, and an ex-Templar, and he was a damn good warrior and wanted to fight. That might change when she found out, or worse she might be angry because she was a full-blooded Teyrna and he was some Theirin bastard.

He was surprised she had let it go as easily as she had in Lothering when she had first demanded to know why Arl Eamon had raised him. But he had come to recognize that Eideann Cousland thought of things compartmentally and only acted on the whole in smaller steps. She tied together loose ends as they became important, such as that wild guess about blood magic that turned out to be correct back in the ruins. She was too smart for her own good, trying to work out the little bits and pieces.

 _If you know what motivates people, everything makes sense._ He admitted there must be something to that, because she had never failed to convince someone of something yet. She had convinced him and all of their companions to follow her on this chase to build an army. He’d fought not one dragon but two for her, Maker forbid, and would kill an archdemon at her command before it was done.

That was a fight he was not looking forward to, and he still did not really understand how they would pull it off. And why did it require a Grey Warden anyway?

Every time he tried to think like Eideann, she made him feel silly. She’d been trained to analyse the details, find ways to make the world bend to her will, to walk the path between bickering nobility and diplomacy and strong leadership. All Alistair knew to do well was follow his heart, follow his conscience, and do the right thing. That and fight. He was good at fighting to defend. At least he was on par with her there.

 _Stop measuring yourself against her,_ he forced himself to think. _She is not you. And you are not her. It is good you have different strengths._ What were his strengths though, compared to her? He did not really want to think on it, in case he came up short, so he settled back into his tent, and bundled himself in blankets against the cold.

For the first time since the ambush, he had another nightmare. He had never been plagued by them, though he had his fair share as all Wardens did. He had gone months without, and after the Blight began he did not get as many as the others did. Certainly not as many as Eideann who woke up half her mornings with shadowed eyes and a haunted expression. He did not know if that was because of darkspawn nightmares, or nightmares about Highever. He did not want to ask.

He did not even recognize this for a nightmare at first. Instead, he was drinking with the other Grey Wardens, Grigor drinking them all under the table again if nothing else, when Eideann Cousland appeared at the door, and at her back a horde of darkspawn, the sky green and dark. There was the roar, the ear-splitting shriek of the Archdemon, and they were on their feet then, weapons drawn, as she turned to face the horde.

One by one the others fell, until it was only Alistair and Eideann, and then Eideann was gone, and it was only Alistair to stand against the Blight.

He charged, sword in hand, and was knocked back, the breath gone. He saw Ferelden burning, and saw Loghain laughing, and saw his friends dead all around him, and Eideann, watching him, before she was devoured by the Archdemon.

He woke panting, sitting up sharply and only then realizing that Eideann was sitting at the entrance of his tent, watching him in silence with worried eyes that glistened oddly in the light. He looked away, trying to get his bearings, aware suddenly that his armor was at the far end of the tent and she and he both wore only their Warden tunics. He felt exposed.

She looked away a little, saying nothing, and he knew she understood then the nightmares they had. And he realized then why she was there. Tears stood in her Cousland Blue gaze, and she was curled up with her knees to her chest, the Warden’s pendant laced in her fingers as it was when she was troubled. She had had nightmares too. He reached for her, brushed her cheek and caught the tears she blinked away, and then drew her down towards him. She came, burying her head in his arm, and he bundled his blankets over her for warmth, feeling unsettled at the situation. But this was right, and he felt that completely.

She was freezing against him, shivering in the night air, and he wrapped his arms about her and held her. It took him awhile to recognize her shaking was not only cold but tears, and she was silently sobbing into his shoulder, burying her face against the world. So he held her, stroking down her short blonde hair and saying nothing.

How long had she carried this grief? This was Highever, this was not the Blight. He was smart enough to understand that at least. Not once had he seen her cry, except on that early evening when she sat against the log, hiding from them all. Not once had she stopped. Suddenly, with this leg of their journey finally done, there was time. And it had overcome her.

She fell asleep in his arms, exhausted in her tears, and he let her. He even managed to fall asleep himself, listening to her soft breathing and the crackling of the fire and feeling her body, once again surprisingly small for the presence she gave, against his own.

When he woke, she was gone from his arms, and his blankets were tucked about him. He heard her laughing outside with Leliana and Zevran over something, and he sighed, trying to push all thoughts of the night before out of his head, uncertain if he had not just dreamed that as well.

But he could not.

She had shown him this side of her, this vulnerable side. And he realized in the night that Eideann Cousland, fierce protector of Ferelden who was trying to stand alone against usurpers and the Blight, desperately needed protecting herself sometimes. That then was his purpose, and he meant to do it. She had shown him her humanity, and more than ever he would stay at her side. She would not fight this Blight alone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wynne has some choice words for Eideann; Cullen arrives in Kirkwall and meets his new roommate; Eideann is confronted with her work at Crestwood; Alistair learns Wynne has a son and Leliana tells him he must steel himself to make harder decisions; Alistair and Eideann finally share their second kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

“Where will we go now, _Bella_?” Wynne glanced up from the cooking pot where she was stirring some porridge made from supplies they had traded with the Dalish. She too wanted to know what was next. It was clear this was Eideann Cousland’s plan they were following, and she did not yet understand all the woman’s motivations.

She knew the Eideann came from Highever, the last scion of the murdered family. News had reached them at the Circle Tower of that. But she also had heard rumors that Eideann Cousland was a bit wild compared to many other noble girls, and she had barely had the chance to recover from her injuries. She had done something strange with the phylactery in the ruins as well, and Wynne had said nothing to the others but was a little concerned about the girl. While she seemed aware that Wynne was trying to advise her as best she could, she also seemed at times to push those lessons away.

She felt very young. And with youth came folly.

Thinking back on her own youth, of the Circle Tower and of indiscretions, a night in the arms of a Templar, and she felt an inkling of despair.

She had seen the girl just that morning climb from Alistair’s tent and carefully tuck in the blankets around the sleeping man. Such things were a distraction from the Blight and the world around them, and as Grey Wardens they were bound to that duty first and foremost. From what she understood, Eideann had every intention of challenging Loghain directly, Grey Warden or no, and that worried her as well. But this…thing…with Alistair.

Alistair was a boy, naïve and childish. Eideann Cousland made decisions with the efficiency and distance of a trained courtier, cold and calculating and certain. And her calculations did not conform to Alistair’s gentle heart. He slept while she planned, and that spoke volumes to Wynne.

“We are going next towards the Frostbacks,” Eideann replied grimly. “We will be riding hard, so be ready for a difficult trek. I want to reach Orzammar soon. The dwarves will help against the Blight, but it will take them time to ready their armies.” She sipped at a mug of rich brown bitter ale.

It was a sensible plan, but it left all the hard work of politics until the end, when they had a foreign army of elves and dwarves and mages at their back, and that also did not sit well with Wynne.

So when Eideann rose to begin packing her things away into her saddlebags, Wynne crossed to join her. Something had to be said, sooner or later, and no one else was going to do it.

“You’re quite taken with each other, aren’t you?” she asked carefully, and Eideann’s gaze flickered up to scan her a moment, the unnerving Cousland Blue color clear and strong. Then the girl returned to her saddlebags.

“So you know.” It was not a question, merely a statement, because they both knew that something had been blossoming for a while out of the respect there. Wynne sighed.

“It’s hard not to notice the doe-eyed looks he gives you, especially when he thinks no one’s watching.” Eideann shook her head, a smile playing at her lips for a moment. Wynne shook her head as well. “It’s almost too sweet for my tastes, and I’m an old lady who should be making lace hearts and fuzzy blankets with animal motifs.” Eideann gave a gentle laugh, a clear and joyful sound, and it made Wynne glad to hear it. Laughter was important. But so was what she had to say. “I’ve noticed your blossoming relationship, and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going.”

Eideann paused a moment, like her fingers had slipped in fastening the saddlebag clasp, and she did not look up for a few moments. Then, finally, those Cousland eyes did look up, guarded and suspecting a trap. Wynne considered her. There was a little fear and anger there too. “Alistair is a fine lad, skilled in battle, but quite inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt.” That did set of a flare of anger. She saw it burn like fire within those eyes, and knew that Eideann would remember it.

“I will not hurt Alistair,” she said in a voice like ice. Wynne almost took a step back then, but forced herself to stand her ground.

“I am worried about you both,” she said archly. “There is great potential for tragedy here. Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one’s mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?” Eideann’s eyes were like points of light in a blizzard. She stared at the woman, and Wynne recognized her hands were shaking.

“Is it not enough for you,” she replied in a low and dangerous tone, “that this war has cost me my entire family?” Her words were short, curt, fierce, punctuated with pain and loss and rage. “Is it not enough that I have surrendered everything I am, ordered men to their deaths, and have to singlehandedly turn the tide of political upheaval if I want to face down an Archdemon in the flesh to save all of Ferelden? I did not realize that seeking comfort in the only person who understands anything about what being a Grey Warden feels like, with the darkspawn song ringing in my head, the taint turning food and drink to ash in my mouth, was considered selfish.” She whirled about then. “And how _dare_ you ask me if I would save him when the entire world was at risk?! How _dare_ you?!” She turned back, eyes flaring, face twisted in a mask of fury. “If you do not know the answer to that, you do not know me at all. I am Eideann Cousland, and a Cousland _always_ does their duty first.”

“You have responsibilities that supersede your personal desires,” Wynne said sharply.

“I always have. That has never changed,” Eideann shot back, angrily. “Leave me, Wynne.”

“You must – “

“I said leave me!” Her voice was loud and sharp, and everyone in the camp was suddenly looking at them. Wynne looked at them, then back at Eideann, who had not moved, who did not care, and she narrowed her eyes.

“If you insist,” she said curtly. “I have given my advice. Do with it what you will.” And she turned away then, wrapping her cloak about her Senior Enchanter robes, the silk helping little against the cold.

Her breath misted in the air, showing winter truly was in full swing now. They broke camp without another word between them, Eideann ushering them all onward. The Grey Warden would not even look at her then, instead taking the lead in nudging their horses northward along the path the Dalish Keeper Lanaya had shown them to leave the forest with more ease.

They had reached the road by late afternoon, and Eideann turned them westward into the Bannorn to follow the Imperial Highway. Here and there were signs of refugees that had fled the Blight, but the roads were empty, and the villages left vacant, and to the southwest the trees twisted again into Blighted Wilds far in the distance.

The hills of the Bannorn were still alive with game, though further beyond in the north the spoils of war were apparent.

“I’m worried,” Leliana admitted after a few more miles of travel. “Where are the darkspawn? There was a giant horde to have done so much damage.”

“Down,” Alistair said, “and in. The darkspawn march in the Deep Roads beneath us.” He had a severe look on his face, and Wynne wondered if he could sense them there now, or if he just worried the same thing himself.

His eyes kept seeking Eideann, who refused to look at any of them, and they were creased with concern. And they sometimes looked to Wynne, wondering what the argument in camp had been about no doubt. He found no answers there.

She found herself thinking of Rhys for the first time in a long time. She had never seen him again after they took him away at her birthing, but she had heard from the others that he was a mage himself, a Senior Enchanter in the White Spire now, and she was proud.

But she was also sad. Such a loss, such a thing…and the love was lost as well. When Greagoir had found out about Rhys being taken away, he had gone in a fury, being transferred to Denerim for a year and a half before he would return to the Circle. Even when he did, that love was lost, and they could barely operate in a functional capacity after that. It had taken them years to be back on speaking terms, but whatever there had been between them was gone. He had felt betrayed that she had given up Rhys. He blamed her for the loss of the son he never knew. Wynne…well…she did not know what she thought on it anymore. She knew only the loss.

Let Eideann Cousland be furious with her, let her play the foolish little girl. She would come to see, in time, the kindness offered in addressing this now. Wynne could no longer affect it.

***

He settled his bag down on top of his bed and surveyed the room. It was small, very small, and sang of Kirkwall architecture of sandstone and austerity. The room held two beds and a small desk, as well as an armor rack on either side of the door for both inhabitants. He was sharing, of course, because he was new, but he had yet to be introduced.

He rather suspected he was sharing a room because Knight-Commander Meredith did not trust him to look after himself quite yet.

His roommate appeared rather quickly after that. He was not young, per se, but he still had good years in him. His grey eyes scanned Cullen, and he gave small smile. He looked a bit mussed, like he had hair that refused to lie flat or stubble that refused to be shaved. Despite that, he seemed friendly, and he plopped himself down on his own bed with a grin.

“Ah, fresh blood. What are you in for then?”

“Excuse me?” The man shook his head with a smirk, then sighed, settling back against the wall.

“The name,” he said, “is Raleigh.”

“I’m Knight-Corporal Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” for the moment at least. Meredith had said it would take a few days to get his papers in order for his promotion to Knight-Lieutenant, and until then he had no intention of using the title.

“Oh, didn’t realize we were being so formal,” Raleigh said with a smile, sitting up and throwing a small salute. “Knight-Corporal Raleigh Samson, at your service. If there’s anything you need, Cullen, you just let me know.”

“I…thank you,” Cullen said. He had expected more formality, perhaps, given that Knight-Commander Meredith seemed like ice laced with steel. But he liked this man, who was friendly and at ease. It put him at ease a little too. And Maker knew he needed that a little.

“So,” Samson said with a finality. “Here’s the breakdown of schedules for you, since I doubt the Knight-Commander has bothered to let you in on it yet.” She had not, so Cullen paid attention as he unpacked his small bag of belongings. Most of it was Templar issue. He only had a sheaf of letters he had brought from home, and a single coin with a scratch on one side and some patina on one side from the years he had carried it along. It was only a bit, worth nothing, but it was lucky, and it was the only thing he had brought with him when he first joined the Templars. It had been a gift from Branson before he left. He considered it as Samson gave him the basic schedule of meal times, lyrium distribution, and official check-ins.

“Well, in case no one has said it yet,” Samson added when Cullen slipped away the last of his things into the trunk at the end of the bed, “welcome to Kirkwall.” Cullen looked about and found Samson was standing now, considering him with a smile. “A few of the boys and I are going out to a place near the docks that does the best fish and egg pie you’ll ever taste. Interested?” Cullen considered him, hesitant, and Samson clapped him on the shoulder, causing him to flinch a little away from the touch.

“I…I’m not sure if I should…”

“Already cleared it with the Knight-Lieutenant. It’s a celebration of you joining us, you see.” Cullen considered it, then finally let something within him ease.

“Alright, I suppose I could for dinner.”

“That’s a lad,” Samson said, grinning again. “Then I shall meet you back here at fourth bell with the boys.” And then he was gone, and Cullen was left to stare at the place again.

He knew he should go and look around, get bearings in the place, but he also knew that there were mages in the Gallows, and he was nervous to go anywhere near the Circle Tower. The Gallows was as isolated as Kinloch Hold, surrounded by water. It would take a boat to get off the island. Being trapped again with mages so soon.

“Solona is not here,” he forced himself to say. “And neither is Uldred or any of his ilk.” But that was a lie, and he knew it. Knight-Commander Meredith had explicitly recruited him because he had experience dealing with blood mages, and she had as much as told him that he would be facing them in Kirkwall more frequently.

 _They hurt you,_ he made himself think. _They cannot hurt you here. You won’t let them._ He had spent weeks trying to work out what he could have done differently, how he could have stopped them, until a Chantry brother had calmly listened to all his arguments until they sounded foolish in Cullen’s own head. He knew full well he was not ready to be there. But he was a Templar. He had to be there. This was his job, and he had never wanted to be anything else. He was angry at what had happened at Kinloch Hold, angry for the Grey Wardens stopping the annulment, saving some of the mages. He was angry at Knight-Commander Greagoir for letting that go when he knew, just knew, that it could not be finished. Mages were dangerous. He had to watch them.

 _I will watch out for my recruits. The same will not happen to them._ So he forced himself to face that fear and at least go to look at the Gallows. And if he took a few other Templars with him under the guise of it being a tour, no one would know the difference.

***

They were on the road for another three weeks after that, taking the Imperial Highway northward, up the King’s Road towards Crestwood again.

The village was flooded, the buildings washed away, a swollen lake now covering the land of the valley that had once been the town. The villagers were gone for the most part, only a few of them still loitering in the area at all, in makeshift housing. Most had fled north to the harbors at Waking Sea to find a way to flee the Blight.

Eideann felt sick to see it. It had been her plan, her order. She had known it would happen, because there had been no other way, and she forced herself to look at what she had wrought. The lake spread out before them, silent and still, blocked by the great dam to the south. And beneath those waves, how many corpses lay, drowned for the crime of carrying the Blight?

Was that not what she did herself?

She left the group to set up camp that evening and wandered over to the waters, the death trap she had spawned, and there she found Gregory Dedrick, the Mayor, staring out over the waters.

“Teyrna Cousland,” he said when he noticed her there nearby. She simply gave him a slight bow of head and looked over the waters. “I did as you said,” he told her quietly, holding his cap in both hands. “We didn’t have a choice in the end.”

“Thank you,” Eideann said, “for saving those you could.” She could not thank him for doing as she had said. She had ordered murder. And it was hard enough to live with her soul after that.

“What we tell them, if they ask?” the Mayor asked her, and Eideann just gazed at the giant stone dam, built in the years after Calenhad of iron and rock.

“The darkspawn,” she finally said, her heart going cold. “They died because of the darkspawn.” At least there was truth in that. The Mayor took his leave then, unable to speak to her anymore, and Eideann sat beside the lake-shore where grass disappeared beneath the water, and trees were partially submerged. Angus was at her side, sitting quietly and watching the still waters. She reached to put a hand into his fur and he did not move, simply let her, standing still and firm for her.

They sent Zevran to come and find her, and he considered the lake with a grim expression before convincing her to return to the camp.

“We are a week’s journey, maybe two from the Frostbacks where Orzammar’s main gate stands,” Wynne was saying, trying to plot their course.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Leliana said. She had something red in her lap and was sewing again. What it was, Eideann did not know, because the Chantry sister kept it hidden safely away from her. “The dwarves do trade on the surface, but by now Loghain will be moving against us.”

“Let him come,” Eideann said. “I want him to know I am alive. The more we do now, the more word of us spreads, and the more the Bannorn can rally to our call.” She considered the map, then Wynne, and then shook her head. “I want Loghain to know who his enemy is now, and I want all of Ferelden to know it. He faces the Grey Wardens when the Blight threatens all of Ferelden, and that will bring enough of them to our side. The rest will come because of who I am. The Teyrnir of Highever standing against the tyranny of Gwaren will not go unnoticed. From here on out we want to be loud.”

“Eideann, I don’t know that it’s a good idea to be so obvious.” Alistair was watching her with cautious eyes. “He still has an army and we have nothing.” Eideann sank down into a seat.

“Do you know how the Fereldan nobility rises and falls?” she asked, sinking into a seat. “We are not Orlesians with bloodlines we trace back to ancient Tevinter. We are not Nevarrans who have a ruling family that eclipses all others.” She wrapped her cloak about herself. “Fereldans choose their leaders. A leader with no followers is no leader at all. We are tribesmen, and the Alamarri admired strength and dedication to the people above all else. To this day we choose nobles the same way.” She rubbed her hands together for warmth, frowning at the fire. "The freeholders choose their Banns, the Banns choose their Teyrns. The Teyrns assign Arls to oversee the far reaches of the Teyrnirs, though most in recent memory have been given the title by the King. In this way, even the King is a Teyrn, but first among many. Our kings are chosen by the Bannorn in the Landsmeet, their mandate given by the people themselves.” She sighed. “Power is not a right, it is earned by the good you do and the protection you offer. In that regard, we shall win Ferelden from Loghain. Spread our name, and they will raise us up until he must meet us. And when he meets us, I will be ready.”

“You are dangerous, _Bella_ ,” Zevran said, his eyes narrow. “Beware he does not come after you again.”

“That’s why you are here,” she said firmly. “If he comes after us, I expect you to know how and what to do to stop them.” Zevran gave a soft laugh.

Eideann looked to Alistair then, who was sitting quietly, contemplating. He met her eyes in silence and she nodded.

“I know what I am doing,” she told him quietly, and he nodded back.

“I believe that,” he said, rising and downing the last of his watered-down ale before turning to head to his tent. Something was troubling him, but she was not sure what. She let him go, wondering, and thought again of Redcliffe and Arl Eamon at the other end of Lake Calenhad. There had been no news from there for some time. Eideann was worried. But the Arl, however important a man, was not her first concern. Soon she would go south again to handle that issue. For now, she had to pay attention only to the Blight, and that meant she needed the dwarves.

From what she could remember, the dwarves had a very rigid society. They had a king, and an Assembly, with their own noble houses. But there was a caste system that was measured by birth, and their once vast empire was small now because of the losses sustained in the First Blight. All that they once were had been lost, destroyed. Only recently, in the turn of the Age, had they rediscovered the thought-lost old capital of Kal-Sharok. But that was sealed to outsiders, and Orzammar itself was quite insular. Her treaties could command the King of Orzammar, though, and she meant to use them.

The dwarves were also political, she knew. In getting their aid, she may end up promising a great deal more favors than she intended. She would need her wits about her then. A Grey Warden demanded some respect, but the dwarves felt the push of the darkspawn always. A Blight was less pressing to them. The darkspawn were a constant threat regardless, and if anything a Blight made the Deep Roads safer, because the darkspawn broke to the surface instead.

She glanced back towards the lake, then rose and turned towards it, considering that too, feeling the weight of that.

“Those people will be remembered,” Leliana said softly, drawing close, “by all those who live on now. People will tell their stories and remember.” Eideann shook her head.

“ _I_ am the one who will recount what was lost,” she said softly. “ _I_ am the one who will live on.” Leliana was watching her strangely. Eideann simply met her gaze, then turned away, bidding her goodnight. Leliana did not stop watching her until she was within her tent.

Angus curled up beside her, but Eideann did not sleep that night. She lay, thinking of all that there was yet to do, and all that she had already done, and could not sleep in such a place anyway.

“I don’t know, Angus,” she said quietly. “Sometimes, things are just too hard to think on.” He gave a low whine and buried his head into her blankets.

***

The snows that blanketed the Coastlands made it difficult to get into the northern passes of the Frostbacks. A howling wind was kicking up drifts as they tried to gain entry into the foothills, and the horses pushed valiantly on, but often without riders as they struggled to press forward. Even when it was not stormy, the pass was snowed under, and it was hard going to reach the entrance to Orzammar. They camped in caves set back into the hills, except for the one night they encountered a woodcutter and his wife who offered them shelter in their woodshed in exchange for news from the Bannorn.

They sat that night, huddled under their cloaks and blankets, in the space in the woodshed, all bundled close together for warmth. Alistair found himself with Eideann Cousland’s head on his shoulder, and her dog nuzzled on his other side, propped against a pile of wood that still smelled of pine forest. Morrigan had given up entirely and morphed into a bear and was hulking around somewhere in the darkness at the back of the shed, and Sten was grumpily hunched over by a box of tinder, looking surly and very cold. Leliana and Wynne hunched over a small flame Wynne had made using her magic, which she was careful to keep contained since the shed could go up if she lost control of it. Zevran sat next to Leliana, and the two were engaged in hushed whispers about something or other, every so often looking their way.

Eideann was asleep, but it appeared no one else was.

She had hardly spoken to any of them the past few weeks except to give orders. She had been very withdrawn ever since she had snapped at Wynne while packing back in the Dalish camp. She had even been aloof with him, sometimes watching him, and then looking away when he noticed. Something was the matter, but as per usual she was keeping all those thoughts to herself. He shifted slightly, but she did not wake, and so instead he looked to Leliana and Wynne.

“Why is she being like this?” he asked. Leliana glanced to Wynne, then sighed.

“Many reasons, not least of which she believes it to be for the best. Ever since Crestwood, she’s been keeping her own company,” the Orlesian bard said quietly. “The flooded lake, I think.”

That had been horrible. He knew that there were people down there, and many had died. However the lake had flooded, he knew it had killed many. But this was not the first time Eideann had seen people killed. Highever had been a massacre, if he remembered, and so had Ostagar. Granted, those killed at Crestwood were refugees and civilians, not soldiers. And Eideann carried the weight of the death of the civilians at Highever as well.

“She is angry,” Alistair said quietly. He could feel that. Something simmered beneath the surface, controlled and quiet and there in everything she did.

“Probably,” Wynne said, “but anger fades with time, and she has many things to think about.” She was not looking at him.

Alistair liked the elderly mage, and he did not know what exactly had happened between Wynne and Eideann, so he let it slide. Instead, he wrapped his arm about the woman leaning into his shoulder and settled back further into the cloaks and blankets bundled about them, glancing down at the fur-lining of the cloak that bunched over his chest.

“Wynne, you know, of all the mages I’ve met, you have to be the first one I can honestly say I’ve really liked,” he said quietly. The mage looked up with clear blue eyes, gray hair shining in the small firelight.

“Why, thank you, Alistair. I am quite touched,” she said softly, her eyes sliding to Eideann a moment, then back up with a very small smile. “I imagine my son would have grown up to be someone like you.”

“Your son?” Alistair asked, blinking. “You were married.”

“No, I never have been,” the mage said with a smile, waving a little more magic into the fire between them.

“So it was before you joined the Circle?” Wynne smiled at him.

“I joined the Circle at the age of nine,” she told him flatly. “So no. Do you still like me?” There was laughter in her voice, and he flushed red.

“Err…yes? Why wouldn’t I?” he stammered. He did still like her after all. Her news was just unexpected. He wondered where this son of hers was. He hoped it was not one of the mages killed in the Tower. That thought made his heart skip a beat in sorrow.

“Good,” Wynne said with a soft laugh. “It appears you got away from the Chantry just in time.” He looked up.

“What happened to him?” Wynne’s expression softened into sadness.

“I honestly don’t know, Alistair,” she finally said quietly. “He was…taken from me. Such births are seldom, as there are ways to prevent it, but it does happen. And any child born to a Circle mage belongs to the Chantry.” Alistair had not known that, had never been told as much. He considered the mage before him, absent child and absent mother, and the soft sorrow that seemed to permeate her soul.

“I…I’m sorry,” he finally said quietly. She looked at him with kindness and gratitude.

“It’s all right. It was a long time ago. A very long time ago.” He wondered how old Wynne really was then.

“Couldn’t you do something about it?” he asked quietly, and the mage shook her head, looking away.

“Do what? I was weak from the birthing process and there were…no, there was nothing I could do.” Alistair thought of his own mother, killed when he was born, and the sister he did not know but wanted to find. And he thought of his absent father who knew who he was and never spoke of him. He thought of sleeping in the stables, of the one meeting with Cailin when he was ten and Cailin much more interested in Arl Eamon’s armory than the boy who they called his brother.

Alistair had been scrubbed raw and made presentable by the servants that day, at Arl Eamon’s behest. He had been so nervous, his mother’s amulet clutched tight in his hand through the fabric of his fine cotton shirt, when they had made him bow to the Prince and say hello. What if Cailin had not liked him? Was this really his brother? Did this mean that Alistair would have a family? Would he be allowed to sleep inside that night? Maybe he wouldn’t even have to eat in the kitchens.

He swallowed hard at the thoughts that rose within him and drew a deep breath.

“Do you think about him?” he asked Wynne softly, wondering if Maric had ever thought about his second son.

“All the time,” the mage answered softly, in a voice that made his heart ache again for that strange and distant home.

He felt Eideann’s warmth alongside him, and that ridiculous dog of hers curled on the other side emitting heat like that was its primary function, he thought of that home again.

 _I guess my home is with the Grey Wardens, with you._ Eideann’s words had flooded him with a rush of conflicted feelings at the time: surprise, amazement, disbelief, longing. Now he could settle on just one. Whatever she was upset at, whatever she was holding in, he would find out, and he would stand with her. She was his home, wherever she was. He turned his head to look at her, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling in sleep, and then carefully brushed her hair from her face with all the gentleness he could manage. He thought of the flooded Crestwood back behind them and sighed.

“What do you think happened to all the people we left behind in Lothering?” he asked quietly. There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Leliana, once again sewing something – he had no idea what – looked up.

“Some of them hopefully found their way to Denerim. Many probably died. As the Maker wills,” she said softly, her tone flat and narrow.

“Don’t you wish you could have stayed to help more people?” he asked her, looking up. The bard’s eyes bore into him.

“If the Blight isn’t stopped,” she said firmly, “everyone will die. This is the greater good we’re serving, both of us, right here.” She looked down to rethread her needle with some silver thread and sighed.

“So it’s alright to let some people die for the greater good?” Alistair said grimly. “I…I’m not so sure about that. I felt bad leaving all those people there, all panicked and helpless.” Leliana glanced to the sleeping Eideann and then back at him.

“You’re doing what you must, Alistair. There will be worse to come yet…you will need to steel yourself, you know this.” She looked down to Eideann. “She knows it too. It is the source of her strength.” Alistair looked to Eideann’s sleeping form and then wet his lips.

“I’ve never been very good at that,” he said quietly. “The steeling myself part. I find it better sometimes to just be a little weak. I’m all right with that, really.” Leliana grimaced, shaking her head.

“I don’t believe you,” she told him flatly, and her words rang true inside his soul. “And either way, it’s not as if any of us has a choice.” And that was enough on the topic. They all fell silent after that, and then Leliana packed away whatever she was sewing and settled back to sleep. Wynne let the fire go out so they would not burn alive, and there was only the sound of breathing and the shuffling of the horses at the back of the woodshed out of the cold.

When the first dawn rose, Alistair woke to find Eideann watching him, still nuzzled silently against him, considering him with those piercing eyes. He was not unsettled by it, not anymore, because she often stared at something when she was mulling over a problem. He did blush a little to realize she had been staring at him and mulling over a problem, and she sat up carefully, hair mussed.

Everyone else still slept, even Morrigan as a bear on the other side of the woodshed, and so he reached to help her put it straight. She let him, looking about and then sighing.

“Will you tell me what the matter is?” he asked after a moment, his voice quiet and low to keep from disturbing the others. Eideann was silent a moment, and then at last she looked to him, eyes sad.

“I am…I…” she sighed, then closed her eyes, settling back against him. “I make my choices and live with them.”

“And carry that burden forever, apparently,” he said back quietly, poking her. She shook her head.

“Someone must bear the burden of all that.”

“Not alone.” She looked at him, then shifted a little against him.

“You never told me how you ended up becoming a Grey Warden yourself, you know. You know my story, but I don’t know yours.” Alistair looked up, across the woodshed, considering the shafts of light that filtered through the gaps in the shed. Then he smiled slightly.

“Same way you did,” he said softly. “You drink some blood, you choke on it, you pass out. You haven’t forgotten already, have you?” He eyed her up wryly and she gave him a twisted smile.

“Ha ha, very funny,” she muttered against him, but her eyes were watching him, looking for some sort of answer.

“I do my best, what can I say?” he muttered, then sighed, settling back a little. “Let me see. I was in the Chantry before. I trained for many years to become a Templar. That’s where I learned most of my skills, not just the smiting.” She was listening intently, in that way she did when she was trying to read and understand people. He had almost gotten used to it. In fact, he had begun to do it himself as a force of habit. He wondered what information she was trying to glean from him now.

“You don’t seem like the religious sort,” she said softly, and he laughed a little.

“You’re telling me! I was banished to the kitchens to scour the pots more times than I can count. And that’s a lot. I can count pretty high.” He grinned and she gave him her pursed lipped stop-speaking-nonsense look so he sighed. He thought back to those days in the Denerim Chantry and it made him think of Duncan too. That still hurt a little, because he had not yet properly processed that loss himself yet. “The Grand Cleric didn’t want to let me go. Duncan was forced to conscript me actually, and was she ever furious when he did. I thought she was going to have us both arrested. I was lucky. When he came recruiting, I just remember praying fervently to the Maker that he would pick me.” He had not even won the tournament, a bare recruit compared to all those real Templars. But Duncan had chosen him anyway. Him. Of all people.

“Why did the Grand Cleric want to keep you so much?” Eideann asked him, and he shook his head.

“I wondered that myself. I think she just didn’t want to give anything to the Grey Wardens.” He bowed his head a little. “I’ll always be thankful to Duncan for recruiting me. If it hadn’t been for him, you know. I would never…” His throat felt smaller suddenly, tight and difficult to breathe. He pushed that away. “I wouldn’t have…” No, it was grief, there and waiting for him. He sighed. “He was a good man who didn’t deserve his fate, that much I’m sure of,” he finally said quietly, and Eideann turned her face into his shoulder a little. She could not really hold him anymore than she already was, he realized.

They sat silent for a moment, and then Eideann’s stomach gave a growl so loud it startled Angus into wakefulness. The dog kicked, sitting up sharply, and Alistair smirked. Eideann looked sheepish.

“I’m always so hungry all of the time now,” she told him and he smiled, recognizing the feeling.

“The first change I noticed after the Joining was an increase in appetite,” he told her as she sat up and reached for her pack where she was hoarding cheese and salted beef they had bought at the last village. “I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the castle larder. I thought I was starving. I’d slurp down every dinner like it was my last, my face all covered in gravy. When I’d look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare…then laugh themselves to tears.” Eideann passed him some of the food and they sat there together having breakfast without the others for once, and it was nice.

“Was that the only change?” she asked after a moment, halfway through her second strip of salted beef. He shook his head.

“There are the nightmares. Duncan said it was part of how we sense the darkspawn. We tap into their…well, I don’t know what you’d call it. Their ‘group mind’?” She nodded and he sighed. “And when we sleep, it’s even worse.” At her dubious look, he hurriedly added, “you learn to black it out after awhile, but at first it’s hard. It’s supposed to be worse for those who Join during a Blight.” Her brow creased as she looked away, considering that information.

“I don’t like it,” she admitted softly, like she did not like admitting any weakness at all, and he nodded, because he understood.

“Some people never have much trouble, but that’s rare,” he told her, watching as she reached for a block of cheese. “Others have trouble sleeping their entire life. They’re just more sensitive, I suppose. Everyone ends up the same, though.” He took some of the cheese, and nibbled on it before finishing. “Once you reach a certain age, the real nightmares come. That’s how a Grey Warden knows his time has come.”

Eideann had gone very still. She was watching him, eyes peering at him waiting, and for a moment he was confused, until he realized with horror that she had not known. “We never had time to tell you that part,” he said when it dawned on him, and at his horrified look she settled back, blinking and struggling with it. Then she looked back.

“Tell me,” she said, a command, fierce and curt and swift, and he instantly did because he had no reason not to and her commanding voice was intimidating.

“In addition to all the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden, you don’t need to worry about dying from old age,” he said flatly. “We’ve got thirty years to live, give or take. The taint…it’s a death sentence. Ultimately your body won’t be able to take it. When the time comes, most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar to die in battle rather than…waiting. It’s tradition. We call it the Calling. They say the song gets very loud then.”

“Orzammar,” she said flatly.

“You’ll always find darkspawn down where the dwarves are,” he told her glumly. “The oldest Grey Wardens head to the Deep Roads for one last glorious battle. Not that there’s exactly a shortage of darkspawn during a Blight, but that’s the tradition. The dwarves respect us for it. It’s why we kept the Joining a secret from new recruits.” She had stopped eating, was simply staring across the woodshed at nothing. He waited for the anger, because he had been angry himself when Duncan had told him. It felt like a betrayal at the time, forcing him to give his life for this.

But he had come to live with it.

Eideann Cousland’s reply was completely unexpected, though in hindsight it should not have been surprising at all.

“I understand,” she finally said, looking up to him without a hint of anger. “The Blight needs to be stopped, and this is the only way anyone knows how. It took two hundred years to make the first Grey Wardens. This is the only way.” He blinked, considering her and a little in awe of her again. Whatever Leliana had been thinking the night before when they had spoken of making necessary sacrifices for the greater good, he was absolutely convinced then that Eideann Cousland would be able to do that. She would sacrifice herself if need be.

“You know,” he said, looking to her. “Duncan…he started having the nightmares again. He told me that…in private. He said it wouldn’t be long before he’d go to Orzammar himself.” He reached to scruff Angus’s fur and the dog panted and leaned into his hand. “I guess he got what he wanted. I just wish it had been something worthy of him.”

“He will be remembered, Alistair, as will the others,” Eideann told him with that fierce fire she got when she had made up her mind. He really liked that fire. It burned like Duncan’s beacon had at the center of Ostagar, a signal of hope and confidence and justice and rightness.

“I know,” he told her quietly. “Ending the Blight…should make this all worthwhile, right?” She smiled, and then leaned forward and caught him in a soft kiss, pressing her lips to his gently. It was not the passionate one from the river, but a tender one that made him want to be brave and stand taller, and when she pulled back, he was smiling.

“Ahem?” Alistair spun about, catching sight of Morrigan who was standing hands on hips watching them. “You both make me ill,” she muttered, stalking off outside and letting in a flare of sunlight that stirred many of the others.

“Two birds with one stone,” Alistair smiled at Eideann who gave a soft laugh and leaned forward to kiss him gently again before breaking free and rising before the others could see.

Wynne was watching them, and had seen, and Alistair did not know what the look on her face meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on Wynne's son:
> 
> Once again, this point is mostly lore-friendly. The only stretch is that Greagoir is the father, but this is not too much a stretch as it has been heavily implied by Bioware in the release of their World of Thedas books that Greagoir was in fact the man who fathered Wynne's child. So, I went with that. ~HigheverRains


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran saves Eideann outside of Orzammar; Sten gets a lead on his sword; Leliana makes an interesting discovery; Eideann plays her hand against Loghain's men; a visit to the Assembly does not go as planned; Dagna dreams of the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

The pass ended rather abruptly with a stone circle and a riot of tents and caravans pitched and parked before gigantic doors of golden metal that marked the entrance to Orzammar. Eideann took one look at it and exhaled a sharp breath at the sight, because while the market outside was simply a market and nothing spectacular, the wares were strange and fantastic, and the golden doors that stood over everything were enough to take her breath away. She stared, unable to move for a moment, in wonder. 

All about them the statues of the dwarven paragons, living ancestors that were worshipped as gods, rose in defense of the gates. They were massive carvings, extravagant and ancient. She knew of other ones that dotted the landscape across the Coastlands, but never had she seen them too large.

“Get back, _Bella_ ,” came the warning of Zevran, just in time, and then she was shoved somewhere behind Shale as an arrow came out of nowhere. It bounced from the golem’s chest and thudded into the snow. Zevran was firing back in an instant, and Leliana was right beside him. Eideann peered around to see two armored men charging towards them, but Sten knocked one head over heels in an instant, and the other died in fire when Morrigan’s magic burst into being about him. Eideann turned her face away as they died, then slowly emerged from around Shale to examine the bodies. Zevran crouched and considered them.

“Mercenaries,” Leliana said. 

“Well armed mercenaries, recently paid good money,” Zevran added. “A gift from our surly traitor friend?” Eideann shook her head, then muttered her thanks to the elf for spotting it soon enough to get her out of the way. She did not like this protection business, but he was only doing what she had told him to do: watch for ambushes and stop them when they happened. Sten glared at the dead attackers, then sighed.

“Even your assassins are poorly trained,” he sniffed and sheathed his worn greatsword at his back. Eideann shook her head and then pushed onward into the open-air market.

Some of the merchants offered dwarven crafts made in Orzammar and brought for sale on the surface by smithing caste families. Others were dealing in lyrium while the Chantry presence was minimal. Others had come to sell goods down beneath the surface and been stopped at the gate, so they were peddling a different sort of good. One of these looked to be selling all manner of arms and armor, half of it clearly stolen or looted from corpses fleeing the darkspawn. Eideann fought back a flicker of anger at that, and was about to move on when Sten fell behind them, staring at the man. Eideann glanced back, and then joined him.

“What is it?”

“This man. His books bear the name Faryn. A scavenger near the mage’s tower said he had looted the spot where we were attacked.” His sword. Eideann nodded, then moved past him.

“Then let us find out what he knows.” She approached the merchant who was shuffling through his paperwork outside a tent full of stolen wares. The man was squirrely, pale, with a shock of red hair. He glanced around at their approach, with a slimy grin.

“Step right up, friends, and – “ He cut short at the sight of Sten at her back. “Maker’s breath! Ah…I beg your pardon, friend, you…ah…startled me a bit.” His eyes were shifty, seeking a way to run. Eideann crossed her arms.

“We’re looking for a Qunari sword,” she said firmly. The man hesitated, looking decidedly untrustworthy and uncomfortable.

“Qun…Qun what? I’m sorry, I…ah…don’t know what that – ”

“Where is my sword?!” Sten said angrily, and the man wilted.

“I…uh…don’t know what you mean, ser,” he muttered. 

“I would give it to him if I were you, Faryn,” Eideann said coldly.

“I don’t have it! I swear by Andraste’s knickers! I sold it on the way here.” Eideann turned her face away, casually surveying the crowd. Then she looked back slowly.

“Sten, rip his arms off.” Sten stepped forward, and the merchant panicked. 

“No! Wait! I sold it to a dwarf near Redcliffe! Dwyn, I think his name was!” the man said hurriedly.

“If you’re wrong, you know we will be back,” Eideann said fiercely, and the man gave a meek nod. Eideann stalked off then, shaking her head, weaving her way through the tents. Sten looked solemn, as if contemplating the news. Then he looked to Eideann. She sighed. “We have to go to Redcliffe soon anyway. When we do, I swear we will look,” she told him, and he gave her a nod and then fell into step behind her. 

There were other merchants too, almost all the way up to the gates themselves, and in the center on the stone platform people were gossiping. Eideann listened in, but she heard no news of Redcliffe. In fact she heard that no one knew anything of Redcliffe, and that worried her more. She directed Leliana and Zevran into the crowds to see if they might be able to garner more.

Leliana emerged from the crowds first, shaking her head.

“I heard nothing,” she said, “but I have found something, and it is something you should come and see.” Eideann felt a foreboding and directed the others to wait. Leliana wove through the tents towards a small pavilion nestled against the cliff wall. It held stacks and stacks of books and parchments and papers. They squeezed through the tables, careful not to disturb anything, and past a pile of instruments and odd bits and bobs stacked in a corner, including a flute and a lute and a collection of Antivan seals.

“Here,” Leliana directed, pointing towards a stack. “I saw it in passing. It was just odd.” The top of the stack held a handwritten journal in a spidery hand. On it was the name Genetivi in script. Eideann considered it a moment, then reached for it.

“ _The_ Genetivi?” she asked, and Leliana nodded to it. 

“There is more.” Eideann blinked, then carefully opened the creaking, sewn spine. Within she found a few accounts of places she had been, but the most interesting of these was near the back, where the journal seemed incomplete. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes?” she read softly, then looked up at Leliana. “Genitivi was seeking the Urn?”

“And he found it, perhaps,” she nodded. “The bookseller said he found the journal at an abandoned campsite further south from Gherlen’s Pass.” 

“So Genetivi was there?” Eideann asked. She skimmed the pages and something caught her eye. “Haven?” she asked. “What’s Haven? I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Can I help you ladies with anything?” and elderly dwarf asked, waddling towards them like he had a case of gout. He had braids in his beard and long hair and eyes that were creased with laughter lines. 

“Do you have any old maps of the Frostbacks?” Eideann asked him, and the man mused a moment, stroking down his beard onto his chest, before nodded and waddling away again. Eideann and Leliana followed him, and he led them to a pile of scrolls stacked precariously atop of a table, some in a nearby barrel. He went through them hurriedly, as if sure of exactly the one he wanted, and when he finally found it he unfurled it for them. It was smaller than the other maps, but intricate, handcrafted and bearing writing and adornments that matched old Alamarri runework. Eideann peered at it a moment, and the dwarf looked to her.

“What are you looking for?” Eideann considered the chart, and then slowly reached to trace a line south from Gherlen’s Pass where they now across the Frostbacks. And there she found it, a small mountain tarn, and a tiny hatch mark showing some settlement there. 

“That must be it,” she said softly. Then she looked to the dwarf. “How much for both?”

“The journal seems useful only for the name. Five gold for that. And for the map, well that is older. Another ten.”

“Fifteen gold?!” Eideann said sharply, sighing and looking away. 

“I can make up the money,” Leliana said suddenly, and her eyes were alight with something, some idea. Eideann considered her, then blinked.

“How?”

“I am a bard,” Leliana said simply, and then vanished amidst the books and scrolls to return with the lute they had seen propped in the corner with a few other miscellaneous items. “I will earn it.” They pooled together their resources then, both of them pouring whatever else they had. 

“There goes the plan to spend that money in Denerim against Loghain,” Eideann said with a sigh as the dwarf pocketed the money and wrapped up the journal and map in oil-cloth. 

“It is being spent against him now to save the Arl,” Leliana said simply. “And you will not need to spend much yourself if you do. I imagine Arl Eamon will be more than happy to house the Teyrna of Highever once you’ve saved his life.”

“I was hoping to at least look the part for the Landsmeet though. I’ll just have to go in Warden plate and make the best of it.”

“Oh I think you will not need to worry about that,” Leliana told her with a wry smile. “Come, let us rejoin the others.” 

But when they did return to the group, they knew from several stalls away that something was wrong. Shale was standing head and shoulders above the crowd, but Alistair of all people was shouting and someone and Zevran was at his back. Even Morrigan was standing looking annoyed and there was no way she would be standing with Alistair on anything unless something was really wrong.

Eideann saw what it was the moment she stepped into the stone circle that marked the center of the market before the steps to the great metal gates.

Men clad in royal armor, bearing the crests of Mac Tir’s golden dragon, stood confronting her companions. Alistair was obvious in his Grey Warden gear. She should have known that the mercenaries were hired help and not just assassins but guards for further trouble. Months in the wilderness were making her political skills grow duller. In the middle, a dwarf in the armor of Orzammar stood with a disgruntled look.

“I demand an audience with a representative of your king!” the man in charge of the Mac Tir knights was declaring in a presumptious tone. 

“You insult all of Ferelden with your actions!” the Orzammar guard said back.

“King Loghain will not suffer the delay of his appointed messenger on Ferelden ground!” the man declared, and then haughtily motioned towards Alistair and the others. “And _these_ …traitors…!”

“Veata!” the guard cried, shaking his head. “ _This_ land is held in trust for the sovereign dwarven kings. I will not allow entry at this time.” Eideann crossed slowly to them, and Leliana faded into the group with the others, eyes narrow. Eideann stepped up towards the guard and tried to remember in that instant everything she could about dwarven courtesy. There were enough outposts in the Coastlands that dwarven courtesy was something she should be better at, but still she was rusty. She could not do worse than this imbecile Loghain had sent to order around sovereign nations, though.

“King Loghain,” the messenger spat, “demands the allegiance of the deshyr or lords or whatever you call them in your Assembly! I am his appointed messenger!” 

“I don’t care if you’re this king’s wiper,” the guard sniffed, forehead creased in irritation. “Orzammar will have none but its own until our throne is settled.”

“No Fereldan lord can demand the allegiance of the sovereign dwarven kingdom,” Eideann said quietly, and they both turned to stare at her then. The messenger recognized her, or had been warned of her, because his nostrils flared as she drew alongside them, and he took in her Grey Warden uniform with anger. Her appearance obviously took him by some sort of surprise. Doubtless he believed only Alistair was there. He had not expected the other Fereldan Grey Warden. Eideann looked to the Orzammar guard who was considering her warily. “Atrast vala,” she said in greetings. At least she could do that much. “I have an urgent need to talk to your king.” 

At least she had not insulted the man, but even with that he just sighed, shaking his head. 

“If I don’t get in, no one should!” Loghain’s lackey declared archly. The guard wisely ignored him and turned to face Eideann. 

“King Aeducan returned to the stone three weeks ago, sick over the loss of his sons,” he told her calmly, which was better than anyone else had gotten. “The Assembly has gone through a dozen votes without agreeing on a successor. If it is not settled soon, we risk a civil war.” Eideann sighed, tiring of this particular threat to the peace, and fished the treaty documents from within her tunic and held them out.

“I am a Grey Warden,” she said, because in Orzammar that would carry more weight than any Fereldan title. “This treaty obliges Orzammar to aid me.” Loghain’s lackey glared at her.

“The Wardens killed King Cailin and nearly doomed Ferelden! They’re sworn enemies of King Loghain!” he accused, and Eideann’s eyes flickered to him a moment to see his ears were red from the insult.

The guard took the treaty documents, considering it, and then nodded, passing the documents back.

“Well, that _is_ the royal seal,” he admitted. “That means only the Assembly is authorized to address it.” He motioned to the steps. “Grey Warden, you and your companions may pass.” There was an angry outcry from Loghain’s messenger.

“You’re letting in a _traitor_?! And a foreigner?!” he demanded, glaring first at the guard and then at her. Convenient that the messenger had decided now to consider humans foreign visitors rather than the domineering overlords of Orzammar. Eideann crossed her arms, standing still as the Mac Tir knights drew weapons. She could sense the tension behind her from her own group, but this was foolishness, and had to be met with maturity. The lackey pointed to her. “In the name of King Loghain, I demand that you execute this... _stain_ on the honor of Ferelden!” he declared angrily. The entire market had stopped.

So Loghain had declared himself king now, Landsmeet be damned. Eideann shifted gears, holding her head high. There were human merchants in the area that would hear all she said and carry it forth, and now it mattered how she chose to handle this. 

“My name is Teyrna Eideann Cousland of Highever,” she said in a loud, clear voice for all those to hear, “Warden-Commander of Ferelden. I fought at Ostagar and saw our armies fall to the darkspawn there. I lit the beacon to signal Loghain to charge, and he never came. I recognize no King without the support of the Bannorn chosen in the Landsmeet. Your _King_ Loghain is an usurper, who abandoned good King Cailin Theirin to the darkspawn at Ostagar and seizes the throne from his own daughter because he is a coward.” A ripple went through the crowd at that, some recognizing the family name, others the title. A few of the merchants were Orlesian, as Orzammar sat on the border of Ferelden and Orlais, and they were angry. They knew of Loghain Mac Tir from the Battle of River Dane and the loss of their empire. Eideann let all that sink in a moment, then she fixed her Cousland Blue eyes on the messenger who was quivering in anger. “Go,” she said simply. “Run to your false king. Tell him that the dwarves will not hear him today or any day. He is not their master, nor is he Ferelden’s, and the Bannorn will never bow to a man who flees from the darkspawn and leaves their king to be swallowed by the Blight.” And that, she decided, was how you began to ruin a lifetime’s reputation. 

“You’ll hear of this!” the messenger spat, shaking with fury, sword in his hand. He pointed it at her, but she did not move, daring him with his eyes to try and kill her there in the square amidst all those people, to prove her right after all. “King Loghain will see you quartered!”

“I will see Teyrn _Loghain_ quartered,” Eideann replied, “for the crime of treason. I will do it myself. Highever will not stand for the tyranny of Gwaren. Highever stands for Ferelden.” The gathered crowd was growing restless and angry, and the messenger was smart enough to recognize it was mainly directed at him. He stalked off then with his knights, shooting one last glare in her direction. Eideann watched him go, arms still crossed, and waited until he reached the great bridge before calling: “Tell Loghain that Eideann Cousland will see that his blood debt is settled!” Then she turned back to the dwarf.

“Difficult times on the surface too?” the dwarf sighed, and Eideann gave him a bow of head.

“My apologies for interrupting the peace of Orzammar’s market, my friend.” He waved her away, motioning to the gate guards to open the way for them.

“I wish you luck, Warden,” he said. “You are free to enter Orzammar, though I don’t know what help you will find.” Eideann did not hold out much hope. If the dwarves were threatened by impending civil war as well, this boded far worse than she had thought.

She glanced back to her companions, then motioned for them to gather around her.

“Shale, Alistair, I need you will come with me. And Zevran. Dwarven politics are a mess, and your experience in Antiva will be useful.”

“Did I ever tell you I took part in the slaughter of Prince Azrin?” he grinned, and Eideann sighed, turning to the others.

“Leliana, see if you can’t start making that money you promised, and if there is trouble, you and Sten have to find a way to delay it. Also, see if there isn’t a way to learn more about Haven. Wynne, we need more supplies: things for poultices and the like. Anything you can find.” Wynne nodded and looked away. “Morrigan, you’re coming with me.”

“Under the ground?” she demanded archly.

“Yes. The dwarves keep all their records in the Memories at the Shaperate. I need someone to look through them.”

“And what will I be looking for?” the Witch demanded, crossing her arms.

“I need you to see if there is anything in the oldest records about how to perform the Joining.” 

“What?” Eideann glanced back to Alistair who was watching her with narrowed eyes, then sighed.

“The Joining. If anyone knows how Grey Wardens are made, it’s the dwarves, and we can’t turn to Orlais. Right now there are two of us, literally two, who can fight the Archdemon, and we are woefully unprepared. The dwarves have been keeping their records in Orzammar since the time before the First Blight. There must be something there.” She needed particulars, details. She was not foolish enough to believe Alistair and she alone could slay an Archdemon. If the Orlesian Wardens were stuck at the border, they would need a new way to make more, if they could. Anything to improve their chances. “You will also be looking for anything about how to slay Archdemons.” 

“Parashara!” she heard Sten curse. “You do not already know?”

“Well, I have a fair idea I need to stab it until it dies,” Eideann told him with a dark glare. “But I was made a Warden the day the rest of them died, and Alistair has not been one for long either.”

“The whole world will suffer,” Sten said grimly. Eideann shot him a glare, then drew a breath.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” She looked to the group that would be staying behind, and Leliana took charge, directing them to a bare space where they could make camp. Eideann, in a final moment, looked to the Chantry lay sister/bard and then caught her by the hand. “Leliana, if this does not work, you know what to do.” 

“West to Jader,” Leliana nodded, “and get the word to the other Wardens.” Just so the plan was clear. 

Then Eideann gathered her things from her horse, shouldering her pack, and climbed the stone steps to the gate. She gave a soft whistle and Angus bounded up to tread the steps at her ankles, panting and peering about at all the new scents and sounds.

The first chamber was a grand hall of pouring lava waterfalls and paragon statues standing guard with hammers and mallets and axes. Another set of doors stood at the far side, but this was the entrance to Orzammar. 

Behind her, Shale gave an intrigued noise. 

“Imagine if all of those were golems,” it said, and Eideann tried not to, because one golem was really quite bad enough. 

The antechamber opened up into Orzammar proper, which was impressive. The entire city was buried into the rock, glowing windows and fire, but the streets were lit not by torchlight but by the glow of a pool of lava that collected in the bottom of the massive cavern and heated the air around them to high temperatures. Eideann caught herself staring, awed, at the ancient city. In the center of the pool, resting within a pillar of stone, was a great citadel. 

“Wow,” she heard Alistair mutter behind her. “It’s huge!” Eideann stared across the pool towards the vast lava falls at the far wall, and beside her Zevran whistled.

“What a remarkable amount of lava,” he declared, sounding like that was all there was about it. “Do you think anyone ever falls in?”

“Lava bad,” Shale muttered. “Don’t go near the lava.” 

Orzammar was in several levels. Where they stood was the second, and merchants and locals mingled all across the terrace. Houses climbed into the next terrace, which boasted grander structures. She could see dirt trails that led to steps heading down further below into the depths, and wondered if it led straight to the lava.

In fact the whole thing was so distracted, she almost did not notice the scuffle going on until raised voices drew her attention back to a group of two dwarves aligned across the square before them. 

“It is the Assembly who makes a king,” an elderly dwarf said, clad in fine silks and backed by a number of men in red plate and iron in dwarven style. He looked like an elderly advisor, some sort of official. He carried a staff of office. “And a king who nominates his successor. None of it is carried in the blood.” Eideann fell silent to watch. This was important, she knew immediately. Right there, before them, was the superficial argument they claimed to be fighting over. 

Another dwarf, facing him, shot him a glare over his blond beard, small eyes looking angry and fierce. 

“Or,” he said darkly, “as now, when someone tries using the Assembly to pull a coup.” Eideann narrowed her eyes, and Alistair went to speak, but she silenced him with a motion and watched. “Who’s to say what my father said in his final hours when the usurper Harrowmont was the only one by his side?”

“I’ll have you thrown in prison!” the grey haired official declared gruffly. 

“You’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”

“Handlers! Separate these deshyrs in the Diamond Quarter! I will not have Bhelen incite a riot!” There was the ring of metal as weapons were drawn.

“You will not speak that way about the man who should be king!”

“Step back,” Eideann said, and they all did, except Shale who stood still, unafraid of a bit of fighting. Axes and maces and swords rang free at the insult, and the official – Harrowmont? – fled with his guards, leaving men dying in their wake. The prince – Bhelen? – also retreated, leaving a few irritated guards with the mess of corpses to clean up and an unsettled populace to contend with. Civil war threatened indeed. 

But not just yet.

Eideann approached, her jaw set, and one of the guards looked up with a sigh.

“Stone-blind idiots! I won’t have fighting in the commons! Especially in front of outsiders!” the man muttered angrily, then crossed his arms. “If I find that sodding fool, I’ll have him in the Legion!” 

Eideann sighed, then considered the two sides of the arcing terrace, wondering which way to go. Clearly the upper levels were for upper castes, with large houses and the like, and it was there she would find the assembly. There was an ornate staircase that twisted upward at the far end of the right hand side through the market, so she went that way first, feeling anxious. The last thing she needed was to get involved in another political fight, and that was exactly what she was likely to do.

“They’re killing one another in the streets,” Alistair said darkly.

“I know,” Zevran replied with a smirk as they crossed the terrace. “Isn’t it fun?”

“It does not make any sense,” Morrigan snapped. “The dwarves have trouble enough with the darkspawn, that killing one another is a moronic way to mount their final defense.” 

“They say,” Eideann said softly, “that dwarven politics are worse than Tevinter politics.”

“Like the Orlesian Game?” Alistair asked with a grumpy look. Eideann sighed.

“It will be good practice,” she told herself, because she knew already she would be involved in this nonsense. She could not escape it. 

The Diamond Quarter, it was called, was full of concerned looking nobles and conflicting town criers that seemed to be declaring completely contradictory sets of news about who was really winning the conflict.

“A higher class of midget lives here, I’ll wager,” Shale said. Eideann was actually a bit impressed the golem had made it up and down all the steps, but then golems were dwarven constructs, and their architecture was carved of the very earth itself.

“So the closer you live to the surface, the higher class you are?” Alistair said, eyebrows raised. “Unless you’re actually _on_ the surface.”

“I imagine they’ll work themselves out in time,” Eideann said softly. But she really had no hope of that happening at any point soon.

Eideann was directed by an intrigued guard towards a building near the royal palace, where the Assembly was said to gather, so she went. Morrigan left them at the door, following instructions towards the Shaperate instead where the Memories were kept, and Eideann hoped she had better luck that it appeared she herself would.

The Assembly was guarded by a man who looked so harried by troubles he did not even recognize the sigil across her breast for a moment. He bustled into them, shaking his head, looking flustered.

“The Assembly is in session,” he said shortly. “Enter quietly if you wish to observe.” Eideann considered him a moment, then carefully opened the metal doors which swung open heavily. Within, a great circular chamber of carved stone inlaid with ores and minerals that glistened and glowed like lyrium made her pause. A man stood in the center of the floor, controlling the proceedings as best he could, while the deshyrs, representatives of the noble houses of Orzammar, argued across the chamber, each holding a staff of office like the one Harrowmont carried.

“Your mind has gone to dust if you think we would pass such a writ! Half out houses would go broke without the surface trade!” one was saying angrily. 

“The proposal is only effective until we have a king to ensure we are respected by the surfacers!” another declared, black hair shining in the odd light. Given her own impression so far, Eideann felt they were missing the point somewhat, but she listened.

“Leaving you,” the other declared, “conveniently positioned to take over all the contracts. I’ll see your head on a pike first!” Eideann raised an eyebrow. Open threats in the political proceedings? Wonderful, it would be just like back at home then. She sighed.

“Deshyrs, lords, and ladies of the Assembly!” the controller interjected. “I’ve already doubled the guard to prevent violence. Must I summon more?!” Eideann glanced around to see there were indeed guardsmen lining the chamber. She grimaced. 

“Steward Bandelor,” the first speaker said darkly, “Bhelen’s sympathizers are tying our hands with trivialities! They may as well open us to the sky!” 

“I suggest we put a matter to a vote,” a female deshyr called from her seat across the chamber. 

“And I suggest you have a taste of my family’s mace - !” the second deshyr cried. 

“Enough!” Steward Bandelor demanded. “The Assembly is in recess until the members can regain control of their emotions!” He watched them all filter out, grumbling and bickering, and then sighed, turning his attention to Eideann and her company. 

“Stone-forsaken fools and dusters,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. This is the Assembly of the clans. Only deshyrs and occasional guests of state are allowed in.” Eideann crossed her arms.

“I am Commander of the Grey of Ferelden,” she told him softly, and he gave a flustered look, then shook his head again.

“Forgive me, I’m so exhausted. I completely forgot about the message from the gate guard to expect you,” he sighed, then rallied himself admirably with a slight smile. “Welcome to Orzammar, Warden. I hope you can forgive our unrest. The loss of our King has hit us hard.” Eideann nodded, relieved to have found someone with an iota of sense and an ability to converse in a civilized manner. Tensions were indeed high in Orzammar. “Respect for your role is great,” the Steward continued, “but you won’t receive a proper hearing until we have a King on the throne.” Eideann hated to do it, hated to put more on him, but no one else had even so much as listened yet, and she needed to begin to push her agenda now.

“A Blight is coming,” she said softly. 

“It will still seem distant compared to the empty throne,” Steward Bandelor sighed. “The Assembly is blind to all else.”

“Who has the authority to help me?” Eideann asked him, and the Steward shrugged.

“Dulen Forender is Harrowmont’s man can be found at the Harrowmont estate. Vortag Gavorn, Prince Bhelen’s second is often here in the Assembly. I only wish there was more I could do for you.” Eideann thanked him anyway, because it was a start at least, but she had a feeling she would now need to play a longer game than intended.

She left with Alistair and Shale and Zevran and took the steps down towards the Commons where she was almost certain she would find a place to sit and drink and think things through. She needed information.

“What are we going to do?” Alistair asked as she led them back across the terrace towards the steps. 

“Step carefully,” she replied.

There was only one tavern and inn in Orzammar, and that was Tapsters, a place full of drunks of all castes selling ale literally made of dirt. Eideann forsook that choice, despite knowing dirt ale would be better than any cup of darkspawn blood, and instead sat in a back corner, listening for any news.

There were a few nobles in the area who were arguing about the death of Bhelen’s siblings and father. Most of the commoners had a different sort of excitement. She sat and listened while Alistair stared uncomfortably and Zevran disappeared to see about finding more information. A few people ogled at Shale, but Eideann ignored them and Shale just sniffed at them as they passed by staring, until at last they left her alone.

From what she could overhear, the real concern had nothing to do with all the nonsense in the square. That was, as she had determined earlier, the superficial argument. The true one was far more complicated.

Dwarven society rested on the strict caste system and the rigidity of its structure. Only nobles and warriors fought the darkspawn, and each dwarf born had its place determined from birth. The castes supported the entire lumbering endeavor. She saw not only rich nobles at Tapsters, but a few lean-looking thugs who seemed only able to survive because they scared higher castes into paying them money. If crime was the only option for the poor, no wonder dwarves were killing one another in the streets. 

But that tradition was born from the aftermath of the First Blight, when the dwarves drew insular to protect themselves from endless waves of darkspawn. Those attacks had made it difficult to have children, and those who fought the darkspawn regularly apparently had lower birth rates. They could not sustain their numbers faster than they were losing them to the battles in the Deep Roads, and that meant that a tension had arisen among the castes. Who would fill that hole? For those at the top, there appeared a sense of purposeful ignorance. To fight the darkspawn was both necessary and respected, and to be chosen to represent the family was an honor. To allow lower castes to do so would be an insult. But that meant they resigned themselves to the inevitability of the destruction of Orzammar. There would be no more soldiers left. Harrowmont wanted to uphold those traditions, to make Orzammar solidify inward and close its gates to the upper world where more and more dwarves fled to the surface each year. 

But Bhelen, while recognized as a populist and revolutions, was not unmarred by scandal. The whispers say he murdered his two older siblings to steal the throne. And Eideann did not like that any better. The evidence that the patrons whispered of seemed damning.

So the choice was simple: put a murderer on the throne, or support the ailing dwarven traditions. Either way, her influence could be enough to sway some of the deshyrs, and either way she would be making enemies. Not to mention, in her role as Teyrna, she would be called on again to deal with dwarves should she defeat Loghain. A connection of that level was rare, and she knew this was not the last impression she would be making, but the first of many. 

She did not like it one bit, but realism forced her hand.

“We will take the quickest route,” she said after mulling it all over, her eyes slipping to Zevran and Alistair, the second of which was sipping a dirt ale with a look of disgust and distaste. She brushed that image aside and settled her elbows on the table. “All we do here must be led by the single ideal: we need dwarves to fight the Blight on the surface. That is what we must focus on. It will be too easy to get wound up in this political web, otherwise.” 

“I hate politics,” Alistair said grimly, and Eideann gave him a sigh.

“It doesn’t matter. Wardens are political. They always have been.”

“Oh!” she looked up. “Excuse me!” A young dwarf girl with a shock of bright red hair gathered into a series of pigtails was standing near their table, looking sheepish. “You look like you’re not from around here.” Eideann blinked, exchanged looked with Zevran and Alistair, and then looked back. The girl, clad in smithing leathers, had her head tilted slightly.

“Can I help you?” Eideann asked after a moment, uncertain. She had not expected young women to come asking questions, and for a moment was not sure if this was a trap of some sort. But then the woman gave a brilliant grin.

“I’ve been trying forever to find someone who really knows the surface world,” she said merrily, her voice rising in excitement. She leaned on the table to talk to them. “I…I don’t suppose you’ve heard of something called the Circle?” Eideann gave her an odd look, confused for a moment, but there was such a childish look of excitement that she could not just stay silent. She relented.

“Why is a dwarf interested in the Circle?”

“I’ve been trying to reach someone there for years!” she declared, loud and buoyant. “I’ve sent missives with every caravan, but I never get a reply. I want to know if they would accept me for study.” Alistair coughed, choking on his dirt ale, or whatever it was really made of, and spluttered until he could breathe again.

“A dwarf? In the Circle?”

“I don’t want to _do_ magic,” the woman said, shaking her head at him like he was the one suggesting it, not her. “No dwarf can cast spells, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t study it.” What an idea. Eideann leaned back, crossing her arms, and the dwarf girl gazed at her with bright eyes. “It would be a valuable exchange! Orzammar would learn of one of the great natural forces of the surface. And the Circle gains direct access to our knowledge of lyrium smithing!” She had it all worked out.

“The Circle recently experienced some difficult times. There are not many mages left there. Are you sure you want to leave Orzammar?” At the girl’s vehement nod and bright smile, Eideann sighed. “Just who are you?”

“My name is Dagna, daughter of Janar of the Smith Caste!” she declared. “I’ve already begun reading the Tevinter Imperium’s ‘Fortikum Kadab’, and it’s just fascinating! Did you know the Imperial Magister Lords once had genealogies of every human family known to produce a mage child?!” Eideann drew a deep breath.

“Look, Dagna, I’m sure they’d accept you to study, but as I mentioned the Circle is not exactly at its best right now.” But she was not fazed, instead grinning ear to ear and standing up from the table with a satisfied sigh.

“There hasn’t even been a dwarven observer in the Circle since Yurelden in the thirteenth century!” she exclaimed. “I need to pack! No! My parents would get suspicious, I need to go! Is there anything I should bring? Books? Tuition?” Eideann blinked, then sighed.

“I think they have enough books, you’ll just have to help collect them all from the floor. Honestly, Dagna, right now, they just need all the help they can get. Your presence will be enough.” She nodded, calming a little.

“Then I should go,” she said with determination, “before my parents come looking. If you ever visit the Circle, maybe I will see you there.” She backed away with a bow of head, then hurried out through the crowd, leaving Eideann bemused and Alistair watching her over his mug of awful dirt whatever ale. He sighed.

“She’ll have a rough road ahead of her,” he said and Eideann nodded, but who was she to deny the girl? It was obviously her dream to go to the surface and study magic, even if she could not do it. And frankly, if the mages and the dwarves shared their knowledge, the sort of advantage that may give them against the Blight was not negligible.

“Maybe something will come of it,” she said, rising. “Now, with that done, and with her causing a scene, it’s probably time we stopped attracting attention.” Half the tavern was watching them, some with disdain for sending a dwarf to the surface as she had apparently just done. “Let’s go and find out what we need to do to talk to Bhelen and Harrowmont. The sooner this is done with, the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Settiai for your kudos on all three books so far. I'm glad you're enjoying the story and hope you continue to enjoy it too! Thanks for reading! ~HigheverRains


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann and Zevran play at politics while Alistair struggles to keep up; Eideann explains her plan to Alistair and Zevran; Eideann and Alistair fight in the Provings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

Alistair groaned at the sight of the dwarven estate crawling before them.

“We’re really going to get mixed up in this?” he said softly, and Eideann did not look back.

“We have to. We need to.” 

“So what is the plan? Destroy the entire dwarven culture or just strong-arm their armies into submission. Say the word,” he muttered. She made no reply to his sarcasm, instead opening the large doorway and entering the estate with a near-regal air he wished he possessed. Maker, if she made armor look regal at times like this he hoped he never saw her as a Teyrna. He did whatever she wanted already. 

He could not really picture Eideann as anything other than this. Her short hair was her, and while she claimed to have had it long before Ostagar, he could not really picture it. He could not envision her in a gown either, decked out in silver or gold or gemstones. He had a hard enough time trying to see her in anything but the black and grey silk of the Warden uniforms from Soldier’s Peak.

Those uniforms had served them well. They were nicer, he realized, than the old grey and silver tabards they had worn under Duncan. Those uniforms were issued by Orlais, presumably by Weisshaupt. He actually was not sure if that was something that different from country to country, because he had never left Ferelden. But he had decided that these were better, and a pre-made stash of them located in Soldier’s Peak more or less guaranteed this was the uniform of Fereldan Wardens now. 

In a way that was good. It gave them some distinction apart from Orlais, and the appearance of a unified organization without roots in a different country. He liked that independence. Wardens should not be bound by politics.

 _Wardens are political,_ he heard Eideann’s voice chastise him inside his head and decided he was going mad to even think of her correcting him when she literally right there, three steps in front of him, leading the way through startled nobles across the floor to stand in the center of the room.

A dwarf came forward clad in red and bronze armor, his orange beard threatening to devour his face. He considered them with narrow eyes, then sighed.

“I heard there was a Grey Warden here,” he said, giving a bow. “I am Dulin Forender, second to Lord Harrowmont, King Endrin’s own choice as successor.” That was a strange enough thing itself. After all, if the king was chosen by the previous king, but then also voted on by the Assembly, was that not making things excessively complicated? Pick one or the other, of course, of this sort of nonsense happened. 

This Lord Harrowmont, Eideann had told them, was the grey haired man who had school calm in the square when they had first arrive. She had informed them in quiet tones he was a traditionalist, and a pacifist. Those sounded like maybe good things, and Alistair was glad they were there. Especially since the other option had been Prince Bhelen, whose claim lay in his bloodlines and the fact he was perfectly willing to kill people in the street to keep it. That had been more than enough display for Alistair there. 

All the same, this politicking was tedious, and he had never been good at wearing a mask. He did everything openly, made his intentions clear, and all this messing about made him uncomfortable. Duncan had never once told him that the dwarves were so political or so violent. But then, centuries of fighting darkspawn in a dying empire would probably do that to a people. 

Dulin Forender motioned for them to follow him as he led them out of the main foyer into some of the back chambers. 

“Word is spreading that the surface may suffer a Blight,” he said, and Alistair nodded. Eideann’s look was severe and contemplating. “It is shameful we are not in a better position to help.” Shameful? Honor? The bedrock of dwarven society apparently.

“I have a treaty obliging Orzammar to aid against a Blight,” Eideann said then, but she did not draw them from her tunic this time.

“That may be,” Dulin Forender said simply, “and that is a terrible risk for the surface. But even if the world would end tomorrow, Lord Harrowmont cannot ignore Bhelen today. He cannot afford to trust anyone of unproven loyalties.” 

“Stop playing games,” the woman said in reply. “We both know trust has no place in politics. What do you want me to do then? Denounce Bhelen publicly? Prove it in some way?” Maker, she sounded very formal when she did all this political nonsense. He did not think he could pull it off if he tried. And worse, when she got like this, his Eideann disappeared behind a mask of polite expressions and dignity, and all her smiles and laughter vanished into piercing blue eyes that bore into anyone who dared cross her. It was a threat then, and all of the woman he knew and loved lay beneath, hidden, banished so she could wield the power of politics instead. He did not like that, because he did like the smiles. If the world ran on smiles, it would be a better place. He frowned. At least she read the hidden meanings and responded with disdain. He did not like hidden meanings.

“If you wish to show you have no loyalty to Bhelen,” Dulin Forender said with a dark look, “then work against him in Harrowmont’s name.” He considered them then, and looked away. “Bhelen is holding a Proving today, supposedly to honor his father’s memory. The deshyrs take it very seriously. And unfortunately, Bhelen found some way to blackmail or intimidate House Harrowmont’s best fighters into stepping down. Eideann crossed her arms. 

“A tournament?” Alistair said incredulously. “They’re fighting a tournament now?”

“Tourneys are more than just fights,” Eideann told him.

“I know. I’ve been in one,” Alistair said, looking away.

“Really?” She looked genuinely surprised which irked him a little.

“Yes. In Denerim,” he replied. Eideann smiled slightly, then looked to Dulin Forender.

“Are you asking us to enter the Proving in his name, or just find out why your fighters dropped out?” she asked him. Dulin Forender looked between them, then settled back a little on his heels.

“It would certainly make your loyalties loud and clear if you were to fight,” he said, his tone considering. Zevran laughed, shaking his head.

“And _this_ is to be your king?” he asked. Eideann did not look back, so Alistair could not tell what her expression held, but Dulin Forender’s expression darkened. “One who cannot even keep his own men from running like frightened children?”

“Lord Harrowmont,” Dulin Forender said stubbornly, “does not use threats or intimidation to motivate his men. He leads by example.” Alistair blinked, because Zevran was not done. The Antivan Crow gave the man a wry look, picking at his nails with a knife.

“Ah, I see. So it is his example they follow as they cower from this…Prince Bhelen?” Dulin Forender glared at Eideann a moment, as if it were her fault – and to be fair bringing along an assassin was her choice so in a way it was her fault – and then shook his head.

“How dare you slander Lord Harrowmont!” he said angrily. Zevran raised an eyebrow.

“Why should we ally ourselves with someone to scared to even grant us an audience?” Alistair suddenly realized that the assassin had done this sort of thing before. He was practiced at it. This was Antivan politics. And by the way Eideann was not moving to silence him, she actually may even have banked on it. He wondered what else he had missed when she had chosen her party. He did a quick check: himself, the only other Grey Warden wearing the uniform. That would make them look stronger, more unified, where a single Grey Warden would not. Then there was Shale, a golem, recognizable by all dwarves. And Zevran, the political assassin who had mentioned at the gates he had played a role in assassinating an Antivan Prince. Maker…Eideann was playing a deeper game than just this. She actually meant to win this political mess. She had been expecting it. 

From the moment the word had come at the gates of Orzammar that there may be Civil War over the succession down here, he had registered a shift in Eideann Cousland as she adapted. And this was her answer. A display of power the dwarves would understand and the shrewd political mind of a Ferelden noble and a very dangerous assassin. He suppressed a shudder. 

Eideann Cousland was scary.

Dulin Forender was angry, though, and his face reddened a little. At last Eideann spoke.

“Zevran…” It was quiet, a very low and very gentle warning, almost a caress they way she said that name, like she were taming Angus at her heel, who had surprisingly been quiet the entire time. The Antivan grow gave her a low bow, sliding his knife away.

“My apologies,” the Crow muttered. “I suppose not everyone can face death as undauntedly as an Antivan, its true.” Dulin glared at him a moment, and then Eideann raised her chin a little, like she did when she was making up her mind about something. 

“Then you agree to fight in Harrowmont’s name?” the second asked, his gaze sliding to Eideann. Alistair realized in that moment she was going to do it, and panicked. He willed it to be untrue, begged silently for her to say no. The dwarven Provings, he had heard of, and they were vicious and dangerous, no mere tournament like she seemed to think. They said the winners were favored by the ancestors, the paragons themselves, chosen by the dwarven Stone. And to tie herself to one of these people, even he saw the danger in that.

But he had no chance to stop her.

“I will fight,” she said, and Dulin smiled a small smirk.

“Have it your way,” Zevran said simply. Eideann bowed her head slightly.

“When this is done and that Proving won today, Harrowmont _will_ see me,” she said simply, and then took her leave before Dulin Forender could even confirm that. It was an order, not a request. Alistair watched as Shale stomped after her, and then Zevran and then he gave Dulin Forender an apologetic look before following Eideann back out of the building into the grand chasm. 

“What was that?” he hissed as they emerged, and she fixed him with a look that promised an explanation if he would just wait. He supposed that everyone in Orzammar was probably listening in, so he followed her instead up towards an overlook that peered across the lava lake. Eideann directed Shale to stand at the foot of the small flight of steps and keep watch, and then she led Alistair and Zevran up to the overlook ledge, where she paused. Then, in a slow voice, she congratulated Zevran.

“Well played, my friend. Just what we needed.”

“Why did you let him do that? He’s just insulted the man we want to win!” 

“I don’t know yet who I want to be King,” Eideann said in a low murmur, and Alistair blinked, surprised.

“But…Bhelen murdered people. Surely we don’t – ”

“And this Harrowmont will see his people die and the Blight swallow the world for this tradition,” Zevran said archly.

“Harrowmont is not going to be a bad king just because he isn’t threatening people!” Alistair hissed. He could hardly believe that they were having this conversation. Eideann calmed him with a quiet look.

“That is true. A good King does not rule by fear and threat,” she agreed, and something in him eased, but it immediately tightened up again at her next sentence, “but he will not let any other fear or threat motivate them either.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Blight. The darkspawn have swallowed the empire, and every day more dwarven soldiers march into the Deep Roads to die. Those soldiers by tradition come only from noble and warrior castes, and dwarves do not have children easily. Their numbers are shrinking, and fast. But that is not something Harrowmont wishes to consider. He would rather throw his people into a protracted Civil War than see the state of the world he lives in change. If the dwarves are to survive, they must change, because a thousand years of darkspawn raids have destroyed an empire that refused to.” She grimaced. “But that said, Bhelen wishes to force change, when change must come naturally. The seeds exist already, or he would have no support at all, but those seeds must be nurtured, not forced to grow. He…reminds me of Loghain and of Arl Howe, and I am positive there is truth to the rumors he killed his own brothers for the throne.” Alistair felt a little sick.

“How could you even consider supporting a man like that?”

“Because I am a Grey Warden,” she said, fixing him with a look, “and I must protect people, be they men or elves or dwarves. Especially when they refuse to protect themselves.” She looked down towards where Shale was startling several dwarven passersby. “The Blight may seem less a threat because the darkspawn have gone to the surface and left the Deep Roads empty, but they will return. Our job is to see that they do return to the Deep Roads, unfortunately, and I refuse to leave these people with no means for defense for when that happens.” She looked to Alistair then, eyes clear and bright and rainy-blue shining in the light from the lava. “Dwarven politics will literally kill you. I spoke truly when I told him trust had no place in our proceedings. It does not. My goal is not to side with one or the other. My goal is ensure that the Teyrna of Highever and the Fereldan Grey Wardens are not beholden to a dwarven king.”

“And how do you imagine that would be the case?” 

“Proving my loyalty to a king?” she said with a soft, mirthless laugh. “That _is_ making myself beholden. I cannot make of us vassals, Alistair. This must be handled delicately. It cannot appear that we have chosen a side. Our choice must literally be none. And yet Orzammar still needs a king. Let them see the reluctance. Let them see our strength.” He shook his head, adjusting his shield at his back.

“Then let me fight in the Provings. You’ll get yourself killed and I cannot do this alone.” 

“Do not worry,” she said with a smile, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “I have fought in tournaments myself too. And dwarves will not get the better of me. Anyway, it must be me.”

“Why?”

“Because you decided I needed to be the Warden-Commander.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“What a mess.” She nodded.

“Indeed.” She looked out then over the lava lake towards the building at the center that was connected to the commons by a giant stone bridge. “I imagine _that_ is where the Provings take place?”

“Will you be alright?”

“If something happens, trust your instincts, and get this army no matter what,” she told him frankly. “And if something terrible happens, you swear fealty to Loghain and Anora and end the Blight. The rest will be out of our hands.” 

“Don’t make it sound too wonderful,” he grumbled, and she grinned, then took the steps two and a time, some sort of spring in her step now. He did not know whether it was because she had a plan – sometimes that was all it took to get her smiling again – or because she was going to get to fight in a tournament. 

She was a good fighter, and he should not be worried, but part of him could not help it. He knew that the dwarves were vicious, and those Provings were the biggest tournaments in the world. Eideann Cousland may yet win them, because her skills were incredible, but he was afraid. He did not want to see Eideann with another injured shoulder. He did not want to see Eideann with another injured head. It hurt him when she was hurt. 

She led them down the staircase again and then across the commons towards the Provings, head held high and a small and confident smile on her face. They let them pass at the gates with no amount of amusement that she was going to be participating herself.

The Proving Master directed them towards the royal box, where he himself stood to announce the match. A small staircase led from the box to the Proving Arena. It was there, in full sight of the crowds, that Alistair realized exactly how many dwarves now lived in Orzammar. And every single one of those gathered were there to witness blood.

“I intend to compete,” Eideann said simply, “as the Harrowmont Champion.” The Proving Master considered her, eyes surveying her a moment. And then grinned, nodding. 

“Well, that’s a surprise. Never thought the Grey Wardens would take an interest in our king,” he said. 

“I’m full of surprises,” Eideann replied.

“Let me just put you into the schedule then,” the Proving Master said, and then disappeared to make the arrangements in his bookings. When he returned, he was looking at a list of fights, and he met Eideann Cousland’s eyes. “Well, you’re in, and you’re first,” he said. “We’ll just call you the Grey Warden, if that is alright with you.” She nodded. “Are you ready to start then?” 

“Who will I be fighting?” she asked, setting down her pack. Shale gave a low grumble, and Zevran lounged back into a seat with a grin. Alistair felt unsettled.

“Looks like Seweryn’s drawn first bout,” the Proving Master said as he looked down at his sheet of names and fights. “He was one of the youngest champions ever. Beat his own father at twelve years old. All for the right to earn his battle status too years early.” Whatever that meant, Alistair did not care. Eideann adjusted her armor, checked Duncan’s dagger at her back, and then made sure her swords were in reach before rolling her neck a little and nodding. She turned towards the stairs.

Alistair reached out and caught her arm.

“Eideann…” She looked back, her eyes bright and rainy and he recognized the Eideann he respected and admired in that look. She shot him a small smile. “Just…be careful.” She nodded, and glanced down at his hand holding her wrist, and he felt himself blush a little. “I just…”

“Be ready to fight, Ser Grey Warden,” the Proving Master said. “If she makes it through to later rounds, you’ll be joining her in that ring, I imagine.” Alistair blinked, then released Eideann with a sigh.

“Good luck,” he said, and she gave him a small Fereldan salute, fists across her chest as she bowed. It had all the flourish of the nobility in it, the grace of practice, and he let her go down the steps to the ring. 

“Do not worry, my friend,” Zevran said simply as Eideann crossed into the center of the ring and drew her Warden blades. They rang out across the arena like bells, arching streams of light. “She knows what she is doing. I think she is even having fun. And it has been awhile since we have seen our beautiful leader having fun, has it not?” Alistair just nodded, because he supposed that was true, and settled down to watch.

***

She had not felt such electricity in a crowd since her father had hauled her from the ring at Highever’s tournament after she had beaten Ser Enley to the ground in the penultimate round. She could feel the blades, light and eager in her hands, and her feet felt ready to dance. That was all it was, really, dancing. She had been watching the dwarves on the way to the Proving and recognized that there were those who were quick and those who were slow like all the rest. She had already adjusted a little to compensate for the height difference. Aside from that, she was simply going to do her best to win. Mostly because failure was not an option. 

She could almost feel Alistair’s eyes on her up in the royal box, and smiled slightly to herself.

 _Watch me,_ she thought. _See what I can do._ She heard Angus bark up in the box and grinned. 

The dwarf facing her was clad in red iron, an axe at his back, a giant mustache making him look like he were frowning. Eideann considered him as the voice rang out to announce the fight, the Proving Master making use of the acoustics in the box. 

Here, she was not a Cousland. Here the traitors were not her enemies. Not yet. Here, she was a Grey Warden, a member of a fierce and proud organization that garnered respect and appreciation wherever they went. And she planned to make the most of those feelings, while she could. Sometimes, it was nice to not really be anyone at all.

“This is a Glory Proving, fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin!” the Proving Master announced. “First up is Seweryn of the Warrior Caste. Many of you remember when Seweryn made history as a lad of twelve by defeating his own father in this very ring!” The crowd cheered and Seweryn readied his axe and shield, bowing to her across the ring. “Today, he fights as a champion for Prince Bhelen. Opposing him in Lord Harrowmont’s name is a member of the famed Grey Wardens!” 

“In the name of House Aeducan and our future King Bhelen!” Eideann heard Seweryn call out. She supposed she would have to say something then too, and smiled slightly, offering a slight bow to the dwarf across the arena. 

“You honor me with this fight,” she said, for his ears alone, and he smiled under his mustache. 

“First warrior to fall,” the Proving Master declared, “is vanquished! Fight!” Seweryn charged, and Eideann stepped aside, twisting around. The fights, she had been told, were beyond first blood. People often died in the Provings. She did not exactly want to kill anyone, so she was being careful, but he did not seem to want to play the same game. 

Their swords met, clashing, and her other one spun up to knock aside his shield. She stepped about him, proud of her footwork, glad for the chance to put her skills to use in a more formal field. It had been so long since she last got to do any of her training, but the forms flowed like water in a river through her mind and out, and she whirled about the arena. 

He could not keep up with her. She almost felt like it was too easy, and then chastised herself for being arrogant and proud. She knocked his shield aside again, and then sent his axe spinning away, knocking him back with a kick and finishing with both blades aimed at his heart, Seweryn flat on his back. 

He sat up a moment, then lay back, and laughed. She drew back, and stood up and he grinned at her.

“You’re quick,” he said. “I hadn’t thought someone so much taller than I could be that fast.” 

“The winner is,” the Proving Master declared, “the Grey Warden!” And the dwarves were cheering in the stands, and it felt nice to get a bit of recognition for once and spending half of her time digging people out of messes they had made themselves. She looked up to the box as Seweryn pushed himself up and staggered out of the ring, then took the steps with a smile. 

Alistair shook his head at her as she reached the top of the stairs, but he did roll his eyes.

“Well done, show off,” he said and she just shot him a look. He was worried, and it was a little endearing really. It also freed herself up from the task of worrying about herself, since he was so inclined to take it upon himself.

“You, _Bella_ , dance like a dream,” Zevran said, passing her a mug of that horrible dirt ale, which she promptly set back down without drinking. Shale gave a grunt near the door.

“What is there to prove?” the golem said grumpily. “They’re all soft, filthy things that are going to die.” 

“Thank you, Shale, for your concern,” Eideann said.

“That was an exciting start, Warden,” the Proving Master said, his voice echoing a little. “Seweryn is rarely trounced, and so thoroughly.” Eideann looked to Alistair, and the Proving Master went through his lists.

They watched a few more fights before he called her over for the next round. This time her fight would be against a pair of fighters, Lucjan and Myaja.

“As twins,” the Proving Master explained, “they’ve always been allowed to fight as a single person.”

“Even though they aren’t,” Eideann said.

“That’s not a fair match!” Alistair said defensively, but she silenced him with a touch on his arm and a confident look.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“They’re Warrior Caste, but their mother was a smith, so watch out for Myaja’s hammer,” the Proving Master warned. “And don’t forget Lucjan. Most fighters do…and end up with his knife in their spine.” Eideann gave a laugh, and Alistair looked startled that she found it amusing.

“Sounds like a challenge.” 

“Be careful,” Alistair warned her again, and she simply took the stairs down again. 

A rogue she could handle, because she already knew those tricks, and if he was fighting with knives, he would have to get close range. She did not need to bother with that. Her swords rang free as she crossed to her place, and the twins considered her from across the way. Myaja would be a heavy hitter, and come at her strong, but she would also have a slowness from the hammer. That was an advantage.

The Proving Master began his announcement as the pair of them crossed to take their own places, Myaja giving her a snide look and Lucjan already checking for weaknesses. Eideann allowed him to see some, to trap him in later, but if he fell for it she did not know.

“This round, Harrowmont’s champion takes on the notorious duo, the Warrior Caste’s twin terrors, now fighting for Prince Bhelen – Myaja and Lucjan!” 

“May the Stone honor you,” Myaja said with a twisting smile.

“When you fall,” Lucjan finished, and the pair of them laughed.

“Sure,” Eideann said with a smile, “and may the dirt taste good when I feed it to you.” She twisted her blades into better positions with her hands the Proving Master began.

This fight was harder, and she instantly knew it would be the moment Lucjan vanished out of her line of vision and left her to contend with a charging Myaja. She stepped back, Circling around, and ducked Myaja’s first swung, rolling clear and rising back to her feet. Her blades caught Lucjan’s first dagger thrust, rebuffing him and sending him backwards, and then came up just in time to catch Myaja’s hammer. The force was incredible, and she struggled to deflect it, before at last she could twist away and let it fall where she had been. She rolled clear, turning to cross blades with Lucjan again a moment longer, and then twisted to find Myaja ready for another assault. Her hammer came about, too fast to block, and Eideann found herself penned in by the brother, who twirled his dagger. She was forced to deflect that, and turn instead out of the way of the hammer. In the process, it caught her left hand sword, sending it flying across the ring out of her reach. Eideann’s other sword came up, however, piercing through Myaja’s middle and catching her unprepared. The melee fighter’s eyes went wide, and Eideann heard the hammer fall as she slumped. Then she drew free her blade, and managed to evade Lucjan’s thrust just in time.

She twisted about, wheeling across the arena. In a single motion she rose, twisting and her hand went to Duncan’s dagger, which then flew, end over end a perfect twist. It buried itself in Lucjan’s shoulder, knocking him back and causing him to drop his blade, and then Eideann was on him, panting, sword at his neck. He held up his hands, yielding, and Eideann stepped back, rising and yanking her dagger from his shoulder, which caused him to hiss in pain then laugh even though it was not funny. He crawled over, blood spilling onto the stone, to Myaja who was curled about her own wound, and Eideann looked up the royal box and the Proving Master, who nodded at her and announced her victory. Beside him, Zevran was clapping. Alistair was just solemn, and she saw the lines of worry etched in his face. She bent to collect her other blade and then left the ring. 

Alistair met her at the top of the stairs again, and clapped her on the shoulder, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“It’s not too late to stop this,” he told her, but she just shook her head.

“Oh, it is far too late now,” she said simply. “And this is the easiest way. But if you don’t think I can do it…”

“I’m just worried.”

“I know,” she teased, but she felt a flush of warmth at his admission, and turned back to the Proving Master. 

This time Zevran had water for her, which was far better than dirt alcohol. She downed that in one, panting softly from the exertion, but honestly she was having fun, and this was the first time in a long time she had really been able to say as much.

“That was an exciting bout,” the Proving Master said, filling her name in for the next round on his chart. “Two on one and you took both of them easily.”

“Well…easily may not be the right word,” Eideann admitted. “Who actually usually fights in these Provings?” 

“The Warrior and Noble Castes often send representatives to win glory and honor for their houses. Some are Deep Roads veterans. Others are here looking for the right to earn a commission and be sent against the darkspawn. It is an honor you have chosen to fight them yourself, Warden.” Eideann shook her head.

“I would rather we sent all of them to fight darkspawn right now. They’ll get the chance soon enough. And those veterans…” They would be of so much more use at the top. But it worried her a little. If these were some of their best fighters, the ones they sent against the darkspawn, then she wondered how many would be able to stand against the might of a horde instead. She looked to Alistair, who was crouched down petting Angus, and sighed. He looked at her, but he was still concerned, and she gave him a small, serious nod.

“Your next fight is first in the next round, Warden,” the Proving Master said. “You’ll be fighting Hanashan, one of the legendary Silent Sisters. She’s a ferocious fighter and dedicated enough to cut out her own tongue.” Eideann must have made a face because the Proving Master grinned. “The Silent Sisters do it to honor the Paragon Astyth the Grey, who won the right for women to be warriors.”

“Alright. When is the fight.” 

“Right after this one.” Eideann nodded, then settled back into her seat to watch the dwarves battle it out between themselves.

“Eideann, you’re too cocky on that field,” Alistair finally said. “You are going to make a mistake if you keep at this.”

“Such confidence,” she said with a smile. “I promise, when I make a mistake I shall pay for it in blood, and learn my lesson. I’m having _fun_ , Alistair.” He shook his head with a sigh.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“You said so yourself that bloodthirstiness is such a charming feature.” He looked surprised, and to be fair it had been months and months since he had said it. It had been back with Daveth and Jory when they hunted darkspawn in the Korcari Wilds before all this nonsense had really begun, when all she thought about was trying to bring justice to Howe.

He would get his justice. She was here to win the right to speak with this Lord Harrowmont, and then she would make her decisions from there. But this felt like a success, a victory of sorts. Fun was something that felt illicit now, so she reveled in it while she could. The Proving Master beckoned her from her seat, and she rose.

“Look after Angus,” she said, and then went back down the steps.

“Harrowmont’s champion cleared the Stone,” the Proving Master said as she descended to the arena. “But can she hold out against the Paragon’s own favorites, the Silent Sisters?” Eideann did like the pageantry of it. It felt a little like the old days had been, but the stakes were higher, and for the first time in a long time she knew she could meet them. “We’ll find out as the Warden faces Lady Hanashan, who proved her worth to Paragon Astyth the Grey by cutting out her own tongue, and to our Prince Bhelen by fighting in his name!” Hanashan watched her with steely eyes, then gave a low bow. Eideann said nothing this time. She just bowed as well, the crossed vambraces bow of Fereldan knights. “Fight!” 

Hanashan was fast, even for a greatswordsman, and the pair of them covered a lot of ground together across the arena. They danced and jabbed, and the swords clashed together, jarring her hands as she leapt clear of the strike and skipped backwards out of the way of the next swing. 

It was like a game, a chase around the ring, back and forth. Eideann felt the first cut sink into her leg and winced, giving a sharp cry at the feeling. She limped back, blocking the next three quick blows with her swords, and then returned the favor. Hanashan did not make a sound, however, silently turning her eyes to the next target, whirling about with a strength Eideann wished she had. 

But Eideann still had the advantage of two blades over one, and she stepped forward, inside Hanashan’s guard, putting her weight on her good leg as she forced the Silent Sister down to the ground. She stomped her foot down on the sword blade that Hanashan tried to bring up, slamming it into the ground in spite of the pain that shot through her wounded leg. And then she kicked the sword away and stood over the Silent Sister, whose eyes narrowed at her in anger. Hanashan turned, hauling herself away and trying to rise, to reach her sword, and Eideann stepped forward, putting her strength into a spin to give herself more force. Her blade sank into Hanashan’s torso, landing between the ribs and burying deep, and Hanashan gripped her side, eyes wide. 

She never made a sound as she slipped to the ground. Eideann drew her sword free, panting, and forced herself to watch as the Silent Sister bled out onto the floor. 

A medical team rushed out, but Hanashan was not moving, and her eyes were staring up towards the sky, unblinking. Eideann, forced herself to watch them carry her away. The cheers that erupted were deafening, but Eideann felt sick to hear them. She looked up at the crowd, her smile gone now, and sheathed her blades. Then she limped towards the stairs.

Alistair was halfway down them now, and helped her up them with a shake of his head.

“I told you to be careful!” he hissed. “Did you have to kill her?”

 _Yes_. Hanashan had stared her with anger because that was what she wanted, the honor of a death in battle. Eideann just sighed, taking the seat and staring in surprise as he hauled up her tunic and then motioned for her to loosen her black leggings so he could get at her wound.

“What are you - ?”

“You’re not done fighting,” he told her fiercely. “And this needs treatment, before you go back out there. So Maker’s blood, Eideann get your damn leggings off before I take them off myself.” He was blushing at his own words, unable to meet her eyes, but he busied himself with digging around in their packs for their healing herbs and bandages. 

He knew what he was doing, and Eideann winced as she peeled off her leggings on that single leg and let him tend to the wound on her outer thigh. He wound the bandage about it after cleaning it off with some of the water Zevran had brought, and then shook his head at her angrily. 

“This was a bad idea,” he told her, but she just laughed, unable to look him in the eye at the situation they found themselves in. 

“Harrowmont will be pleased, Warden. The Silent Sister’s support was a great boost for Bhelen,” the Proving Master said, watching them.

“She’s dead. If he is pleased about that, I think less of him,” Eideann said frankly. “I did not come to Orzammar to murder dwarves in his name.” 

“Indeed,” the Proving Master considered his lists, then looked up. “You have made it to the next round, and these champions are those who have made a name for themselves several times in this arena. Your next opponent is not for awhile yet, but this should be a good match. You’ll battle Wojeck Ivo, master of all weapons, prisoner of none.” Eideann’s eyes narrowed, and then she gave a sharp hiss as Alistair yanked the bandage tight about her wounded leg. “He makes it a point never to use the same technique twice.” Eideann nodded, then sighed as Alistair motioned for her to climb back into her leggings. He fished out a small sewing kit and set to work repairing the gash in the leggings, and she watched him, amused and a little worried he would stab her with the needle. He had admitted to Wynne just the week before he had little skill with it.

“Eideann, you’ll be very careful with this one,” he told her in an authoritative tone she had never heard from him before. “Things are serious now, and these people are heavily involved in this fight. They believe the ancestors will show the winner favor and they desperately want that winner to be Bhelen’s man. You’re in danger. Stop messing about.”

“Messing about?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call my fighting style?”

“You’re all over the place. You’re a master of forms and yet you can’t decide which to use.”

“Oh yes I can,” she shot back, a little irritated he was trying to coach her. What did he know of dual wielding. 

“You’re skilled,” he told her, “but also lucky, and a lot of this so far has been luck. That luck will run out. Be aware of what is happening.” He finished patching her leggings, a mediocre job but it held when she moved, and put away the sewing kit before sitting back with his back against the box wall across from her and watching her with his amber eyes. “If something happens to you, we are in a mess.” She reached to touch his hand, then drew a deep breath.

“Thank you,” she told him, “for letting me do this, and for patching me up.” She tested her leg and it stung like something awful, but she would manage. She stayed in her seat, letting it rest, and Alistair just gritted his teeth.

“There’s only one more round before the finals,” the Proving Master told them in between fights. “You shall be battling on teams from now on.” Eideann gave Alistair a small smile at that, but he just sighed and stared up at the stone ceiling with a despairing look.

“Wonderful,” he muttered, and she laughed softly. 

“Don’t be a coward,” she told him quietly. “We can do this.”

“Of course we can. I’m not worried about winning,” he told her, and that surprised her because she was certain he had been concerned about that all along. He fixed her with a look, and then shook his head. “This won’t just end with the Provings. This is the beginning. I’m worried what fight comes after this, where we won’t be at our best because we’ll be bloodied and bruised from this endeavor.” 

That was a fair point, and she did not really have a response.

She was allowed almost an hour’s rest before the next round, because one of the fights went on for ages. In that hour, Zevran managed to find them food: some nug meat on metal skewers that had been roasted over a flame. It felt like carnival or a celebration, eating and drinking and watching a tournament. It felt surreal. And yet, she reminded herself, Alistair was right. This was just the beginning and the stakes were high. She would need her wits about her for the next fights, especially with a wounded leg, though he had treated it better than she had been expecting and it only ached when she put her weight on it or twisted too quickly. That little pain she could live with.

She descended the steps again when the Proving Master at last summoned them, Alistair at her back, for the next fight, and was proud that she almost did not limp at all into the center of the arena. To be fair, Wojeck Ivo had taken a few knocks himself and was still bleeding from a gash above his eye, which would blind him somewhat in the fight.

The weapon’s master had chosen, foolishly perhaps, to face them with his own sword and shield. At his side was an ill-armored man in a silly looking helmet who was carrying his own sword and knife. Eideann did well against shielded fighters, provided she could force her leg to move, and they were a strength for Alistair’s fighting style as well. But she would be able to take down the rogue easily, and that was her target then. She did not even need to tell Alistair. He understood it implicitly. He was a trained warrior too.

“This round is paired combat!” the Proving Master declared, and the crowd roared. “Just as Kitchett fought as King Bloadlikk’s second defending our empire, so have dwarves always fought alongside a second!” Eideann looked back to Alistair.

“Come along then, second,” she said with a smile. That was effectively his title anyway, the second Warden of all of Ferelden. Constable, was the official title, but that sounded a bit pompous. 

“As milady commands,” he shot her a snide smirk at the jab and drew his sword, settling his shield on his hand. And he stepped a little in front of her, because they knew instinctively now how to fight.

“Master of all weapons, prisoner of none, Wojeck Ivo has never won the same way twice. What will he do today, Lords and Ladies, and will it win the day for Prince Bhelen?” The Proving Master looked to them then. “Grey Wardens, you face Wojeck Ivo and Velanz!” 

Wojeck Ivo shook his head at them, and drew his sword. His second drew his blades. And Alistair charged.

Their shields clashed, and Eideann spun to catch the blades of the second that came hurtling towards Alistair. He throw Wojeck Ivo backwards with his shield and swung, and Eideann ducked his sword to cut across and block the rogue again from a second attempt. 

It was a close-quarters fight, and Eideann was playing defense in this particular case as Alistair served as the battering ram of sorts to her finesse. They harried the two dwarves, and in return they were harried too.

The rogue was quick, faster than Eideann now because of her leg, and he knew it. Several times he almost feinted, outmaneuvering her. His target was Alistair, but he harassed her as well, and she took several nicks where she was a tad too slow in evading. 

They were skilled fighters too, and both teams knew well how to work together. It was a surprise when she suddenly felt the shield of Wojeck Ivo knock her back, and her weight was caught on her injured leg, causing her to topple. She went down, her blade knocked from her hand as it hit the floor. The other one she brought up, too slow, and the rogue was on her arm, pinning it down until he could kick it free. Alistair was busy with his own business, and the rogue atop her had every intention of killing her then and there. She could see the anger in his eyes. A true Bhelen supporter at this level, he would kill her. She had at last discovered the enemies she knew she would make.

She reached up and grappled with him over the dagger, feeling the blade cutting into her hand a little at the force. They fought, all their weight against the blades that the dwarf was trying is best to bury in her flesh.

There was a sharp cry, the sound of a shield clattering to the ground, and then a cheer from the crowd. Eideann prayed that it Wojeck Ivo who had gone done, and she had confidence enough in Alistair’s skill that it was so, but for a few brief moments, she honestly did not know, and in those moments she caught herself wondering what death would be like. 

And then a blade came down, piercing through the rogue, and she felt his blood splatter onto her tunic as the sword came free. The rogue made a pained noise, and she gained control of the daggers, spinning them outward and kicking her knee up against the man, who gave a sharp cry as she connected with something. She forced him off and he staggered backwards, crawling on his knees towards one of his knives, and then he fell, as Hanashan had done, and a pool of blood began to form.

This time, the medical team did make it in time, and they carried him and the unconscious Wojeck Ivo off the field on stretchers while he wailed up a storm.

And then Alistair stood there, shield on his back and sword in one hand, reaching down to her with the other. She took his hand and he hauled her up, watching her with worried eyes. She stared at him a moment, and then she heard the crowd roaring, and closed her eyes to catch her breath. 

It had been a close thing.

But he was there, like he always was. She reached up to touch his face, and he softened slightly, releasing her hand. Her arms came up about his neck, and his free arm came about her waist, his right arm holding his sword well clear of her. She felt his fingers on the small of her back, warm and strong and pulling her in, and her eyes met his. And then she pulled him down into a kiss, there in front of the entirety of Orzammar, and damn the consequences.

He tossed aside his sword, his other arm wrapping about her, and he kissed her back, until they could neither of them breathe, and then at last she broke apart, laughing, and set her forehead on his.

“Maker’s blood,” he cursed softly, and she laughed again, quiet, a private laugh just for them. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, shaking his head and leaning back, reluctant to let her go. She drew his hands from behind her back, then slowly released them, and sighed.

“Something, I’m sure,” she said wryly, and then they bent to collect their gear and he helped her limp back to the steps, to the sound of Orzammar cheering in the background.

“Well,” the Proving Master said as they climbed the steps to the royal box. “That was quite the display.” He smirked. “Wojeck Ivo is one of the best this arena has seen, Wardens. Harrowmont picked wisely. And it seems you are the new crowd favorites after that celebration.” He smiled at them, and Alistair looked away, reaching up to his neck and giving a small cough to hide his embarrassment. Eideann just looked sidelong at him and smiled. “You have made it to the Championship Round, a full squad-on-squad combat. Piotin Aeducan leads the same team he’s taken to victory in over a dozen Deep Roads expeditions. This is the final test.” Eideann looked to Zevran, who was once again picking under his fingernails with the point of a knife, and then up to Shale who gave a shrug and stared. 

“So be it,” she said, and Alistair sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s just try not to get you killed this round. And make me one promise?” She raised an eyebrow and he met her gaze. “After this, we are _never_ fighting in a tournament to the death _ever_ again.” She gave him a wry look.

“As long as we don’t count the Archdemon, I suppose that’s a promise I can keep.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann, Shale, Zevran, and Alistair fight in the final round of the Provings; Alistair is forced to confront Wynne about Eideann; Eideann reads Harrowmont's intentions and shows that two can play at the political game; Eideann and Alistair end up sharing a room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

It was a wonder that Shale had made it down the small steps, but in the end they found themselves on the field. The golem had drawn the awe of the crowd, glowing bright with crystals in a manner Eideann realized had not been seen in centuries. She wondered again just how old Shale really was. 

Poitin Aeducan was apparently Prince Bhelen’s cousin, and he and his men were all wearing royal armor in particularly good condition, which made this fight far more difficult than the last. Alistair looked nervous, continually adjusting his shield on his arm beside her, but the burns had healed nicely, and so had Zevran’s, so she knew it was not from discomfort. 

Eideann herself could feel her leg aching and grimaced as she took up her position. Zevran stood right next to her, wicked knives in both hands, and eyed her up.

“Ready, _Bella_?” he asked her in his usual charming Antivan. She shook her head, then wet her lips.

“Shale, Alistair, you’re our front line. Don’t let those warriors through. Alistair, if you need to, smite the little bastards.” She looked to Zevran. “Watch my back,” she said quietly, almost a plea, and he nodded, his smile slipping into a serious expression.

“They will not touch you, _Bella_ , I swear it.” She could feel the pain slowing her, and knew she needed to get off that leg and recover before she lost all feeling entirely. She was favoring the other one now, and she was the obvious weak link in their formation, so she would be a target. 

The dwarves assembled with Poitin Aeducan were all veterans against the darkspawn, seasoned warriors that worked well as a team. That was more than she could say for her own. This would be where they could lose. 

She would not lose.

She drew her blades, and settled her weight onto her good leg. 

“This is a Glory Proving!” the Proving Master announced, his voice echoing across the arena. “Fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin! Only two warriors remain! Fighting for his royal cousin Bhelen, Piotin Aeducan has led his team to triumph over every unit so far! Challenging him on behalf of Lord Harrowmont, the Grey Warden has risen from nothing to stand at the competition’s summit!” Eideann considered the men across from her with a grimace. “Each will lead a full unit of four soldiers, to see once and for all whom the ancestors favor!” 

“You fight well,” Piotin Aeducan called across to her, drawing his battleaxe and hefting it in one hand. The strength required for that…she hoped Shale went for him instead of Alistair. The golem would shatter the metal before it did much harm. Piotin Aeducan shook his head, “but your judgment is questionable. The throne will never leave House Aeducan!” Such were the words of simple-minded men who believed themselves above the rules of reality. There had been many dwarven kings before the Aeducans, and perhaps many more after them, just as the Couslands had sworn fealty to the line of King Calenhad. Those who ruled did not do so because their blood demanded it. They ruled because the people demanded it. 

Eideann just raised her chin and shook her head.

“Shut up,” she said, “and fight.” 

He just smiled mirthlessly at her.

The Proving Master called out to begin, and in an instant they were moving. Shale bashed the first man in the face with a fist of rock, and the dwarf went flying across the arena to land squarely on his back, unmoving, possibly dead. Eideann watched, not even trying to move. Also ahead, Alistair was bashing his shield against the dwarven soldier before him, hammering him back into the ground. 

Piotin’s men were mostly armored with shields bearing the crest of House Aeducan, but one stood back, aiming a crossbow.

Zevran was moving faster than lightning. He flung a dagger, and it carried end over end, perfect form, until it lodged itself between the crossbowman’s eyes. The man staggered and then fell, and Zevran produced another knife from his belt and leaped into the fray with Alistair and Shale. 

Piotin came right for Eideann, and she readied herself for the charge she could see coming. He dodged Shale’s massive fists, and Alistair was busy handling his second. Zevran came out of nowhere, his knives slashing into the other man, but he had to leap out of range before Piotin’s massive battleaxe swung around, threatening to take off his head. Eideann could not get out of the way fast enough, she knew. And he expected her to be where he swung. 

She really only had one option.

He came at her, battleaxe raised, and she dropped, tucking herself forward under his guard, and slammed her sword through his calf, earning a roar of pain and anger. She tried to free her sword but it would not come through, and Piotin had slumped to one knee. He drew back the battleaxe to swing around again, and Zevran’s dagger came hurling through the air towards her. She caught it and swung back, using the momentum of Zevran’s throw and her own strength to feed the blade, and the knife buried itself all the way to the hilt in Piotin Aeducan’s chest. Zevran was at her side then, hauling her backwards away from the dwarf who flailed his battleaxe and barely missed them both. 

And then two stone hands came crashing down, flattening him into the stone. The crowd gave a cry of alarm, of outrage, and then the arena went silent a moment. Eideann turned her face away as Shale lifted her fists, so she did not have to see what was left of Piotin Aeducan. And then the crowd roared, cheering, and Eideann felt ill again at the thought of what they were cheering about. She limped up, leaning heavily on Zevran, who passed her over to Alistair as soon as he was able because he was not exactly a sturdy body to support her. Then he crossed to Piotin, retreaving his knife, and bent over the body.

Piotin was still alive, gurgling something and twitching broken bones. Zevran gave him a distasteful look, then bent to slit his throat and give the poor man some peace. Alistair turned away, his lips twisted in a disgusted frown. Eideann exhaled sharply, one arm about Alistair’s neck for support, and looked to the Proving Master who nodded down at them. 

Zevran went about the ring collecting their gear and redistributing it back to their original owners. Eideann slid her sword back into the sheath on her back and sighed.

“The Winner is the Grey Warden!” the Proving Master called amidst the roars and cheering. “Congratulations! You defeated the man Prince Trian himself once called the ‘horns of my army’!” That was nothing to be congratulated then. This was a man who had been such a good warrior against the darkspawn that he led the armies of the dwarves. She closed her eyes to let that sink in and shook her head angrily. “Does anyone deny the Grey Wardens have earned the championship?!” he called to the crowd, hands raised, and no one objected. And she supposed that was something at least. “Then it is my honor to declare this Grey Warden champion of the Proving, who has shown that the ancestors favor Lord Harrowmont!” 

“The ancestors,” Eideann called, and her own voice echoed across the arena, silencing the cheers, “favor battling the Blight!” Not Harrowmont. She was not throwing her hat into the ring for him until she had fully considered everything, and she would not be called his lackey if she did side with him. There were political implications involved in that she would need to consider. The Proving Master considered her, and then nodded.

“The ancestors speak through you, Grey Warden,” he said, and she and Alistair gave slight bows. Then he helped her stagger off into the rooms beneath the arena so they could avoid the stairs. 

There were small rooms for the fighters, and it was there they hobbled, Eideann wincing at the pain in her leg. Her rolling dive earlier had torn open the wound again, and she could already feel her leg growing sticky with blood. It needed cleaning and healing before they could do more. Zevran watched her, shaking his head, concern on his face, and if he was worried there was a problem. She reached to grab him by the sleeve and he looked to her.

“Find Wynne,” she said, and he gave her a bow before hurrying off. Shale stomped through the hall, and the dwarves got out of her way. Alistair let her go, focusing instead on Eideann, getting her into a seat in one of the rooms and shaking his head at her.

“This was a terrible, horrible idea,” he told her again, and she nodded.

“I know, but the dwarves venerate their ancestors. To have their favor is something we desperately needed. This was the best way to do that. I did not say this was going to be easy.” She let out a cry as she slowly worked her leggings back off, feeling them constrict about the deep wound on her thigh. “Get me some of those Silent Sisters for the Blight and we could kill the Archdemon tomorrow,” she muttered angrily, squinting against the pain and holding her breath as she finally managed to get the fabric down past the bandaged wound. Blood had soaked through the bandages, staining them crimson, and she drew a few deep breaths before she carefully undid the bandages, fully aware they would be sticking to the wound.

It did not take Zevran long to return, perhaps only fifteen minutes, and in that time Alistair had dumped half a pitcher of water over her leg to clean the wound and then set to pacing back and forth across the floor while she bore the pain. Wynne took one look at her and shook her head angrily, leaving Zevran to loiter in the door.

“I thought when you came down here you would not be doing anything foolish!” she said sharply, the motherly tone in her voice obvious. Eideann looked away, saying nothing and crossing her arms. “Why should I help you if you won’t even speak to me?”

“You don’t want me to speak, you want me to listen to you berate me,” Eideann said shortly, “and you should heal me because there are two of us to stop the Blight. If the Archdemon leaves me gravely wounded, I assure you, you are welcome to leave me to die on the battlefield if the creature is dead. Until then, you do actually need Alistair and I alive.” She stared at the mage, who gave her a dark look.

“You have some lip, young woman,” she shot back, and Eideann crossed her arms as she bent over her thigh to examine the extent of the injury. “And apparently some luck.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Eideann muttered, then gave a sharp jolt and cry of pain as Wynne shoved her leg up to a better position. 

The magic that came next was cold, and she shuddered against the pain. Wynne, meanwhile, was chastising Alistair. 

“Why did you let her do this? Did you not think of the danger to the world should either of you die in that ring? The entire idea of this place is barbaric! Murdering one another for sport?” Alistair bowed his head a little, and Eideann looked away. Let him feel guilty then, if he insisted on listening to Wynne. She had no time for such things. She had done it to earn the respect and the ear of the dwarves, and to show that she would not bend to the whims of politicians. She had done it so the choices that she made next would be taken independently. She had not fought in that championship for Harrowmont or for Bhelen, whatever they had originally thought, and she had made that much clear at the end. She had fought to give herself the voice needed to summon the dwarves to the surface to battle the Blight. Maker’s blood, why could no one understand that sometimes what she had to do would be dangerous as well, and that she had to take those risks for all Ferelden’s sake. 

“You are like a spoiled child,” Wynne muttered angrily at her, but the healing magic was working, knitting flesh together deep within. It felt very strange, and it hurt a little, and the fact it was so cold was an added punishment. She felt herself shiver and gritted her teeth as she felt something shifting back together within her leg. But the cold was also a little soothing, numbing the injury that before had burned like fire. So she shook her head.

“ _How_ am I like a spoiled child?”

“Always thinking of yourself,” Wynne shot back angrily. “You refuse to see your life is no longer your own.” 

“Fine words from a woman who should be dead,” Eideann shot back, and then regretted the words, looking away from Wynne’s steel gaze. “I have already given almost everything I am to this fight. I cannot be Eideann when Ferelden needs a Warden-Commander. And I cannot be Eideann when Ferelden needs a Teyrna Cousland. Between the two, it is amazing I have any time to be Eideann at all!” She shook her head angrily. “I did not fight in that arena for myself, Wynne. I did it because I had to. I need the dwarves and soon.” She crossed her arms and the magic dropped off. Her leg was much better, a thick shiny wound still marring her flesh where the greatsword had bitten in deeply. It would scar in time, but for now it was simply an injury that needed to heal alone now. She carefully wound it up with bandages again for protection and support, and hauled her leggings back on with a sigh.

“I recognize you think you are doing what is best, but you will not listen to anyone else’s opinion on the matter. And in regards to what we spoke of earlier?” Wynne asked sharply. 

“Enough…” Alistair said softly, finally trying to come between them and head off another fight. “Both of you…this isn’t the time…”

“Wynne,” Eideann said, turning her gaze on Alistair, “is of the opinion that it is selfish for us to have feelings for one another. She believes that we are endangering the world. She has made this point very clearly, and her disapproval is founded on the belief that I am in some way going to tear your heart out and feed it to you.” Her voice was cold. She rose, testing her leg. “Thank you for your healing magic, Senior Enchanter. You are free to return to the surface at your leisure.” Wynne watched her frostily, and Eideann took a turn about the room, her limp lessoned significantly, but still slightly there. Then, confident she would not fall, she limped out of the chamber, leaving them behind.

She had better things to do than listen to lectures from elderly mages who, as if they were infallible and not human themselves. She had her own regrets and misgivings about her plans, but people did not want her to be indecisive and considering right now. They expected to see a Grey Warden who could lead them against the Archdemon and back to peace. Wynne might persist in believing Eideann had not thought through all the negatives – and Eideann definitely had tried to do so – but others did not want to see a Warden defeated by anything, not now. She was a symbol, not Eideann. The small parts she retained for herself, like her moments with Alistair stolen in private when there was a second to stop and to breathe…those were not a weakness. She desperately believed them a strength. She needed them to be strong. Those moments blanketed the sins of the past in peace and redemption. Those moments kept her grounded, and gave her something direct to fight for in the moments when Ferelden felt far away. She needed that. 

Wynne thought her a spoiled child. But she also thought her some sort of non-human without feelings or needs or desires. But to be honest with herself, the only time Eideann had felt even remotely safe in those last few months had been when Alistair held her close and showed her she was not alone. She was fighting for Ferelden, but she was also fighting for him.

She schooled herself to calm with a few deep breaths.

“ _Bella_ ,” Zevran said quietly. She had not even noticed he had followed her. “You should not shout at old women with magic.”

“Are you going to lecture me as well now?”

“Me, lecture? Ha. I doubt you would listen if I tried.” He considered her with brown eyes, sharp and cunning. “I mean only that all people have limited world views. We cannot expect others to understand our own or escape theirs.” She nodded, then closed her eyes, drawing in another deep breath of calm. He was right, of course, because his job was to watch and understand people and to manipulate those weaknesses. She needed to remember her own perceptions were bounded in those worldviews as well. She set her mind then to task ahead of them.

“We must go and meet this Lord Harrowmont now,” she told him, and he gave her a smirk.

“Perhaps we shall find him cowering under his desk? Let us go and see.” 

***

“You told Eideann that our feelings were selfish?” His voice was quiet, threaded with steel. It almost did not sound like his own voice at all. Wynne was watching him with a cool look, like she would not be challenged. Her blue eyes bore into him, different from Eideann’s. Wynne’s were the bite of ice where Eideann’s was flame that set him alight. “How could you say such a thing?”

“Because it is true. Love is selfish,” the elderly mage said, and Alistair wondered if this sort of conversation was the sort that mages always insisted on giving. Morrigan had said something much the same, even asking him if he was planning on choosing between Eideann and the fate of the world. Maker’s breath. What a mess. 

And Eideann had said nothing, of course, just held her silence and pressed onward.

He realized that _this_ was what Eideann and Wynne had been at odds over for weeks. _This_ was the source of their argument. He forced himself to continue looking at Wynne. He hated conflict, but this one…he needed to make his own feelings clear here, because apparently Wynne had decided to make this about him.

“You told her you thought she would hurt me?” Wynne sighed, hands on hips.

“Alistair, you have a good and gentle heart. You care about so many things so deeply.”

“And I care about _her_ ,” he pointed out flatly. He was determined to keep calm and get to the bottom of this. He was insulted that Wynne had taken this to Eideann and not to him when it was clearly all about him.

“You don’t know what that means,” Wynne told him, and a flicker of irritation ran through him. “You think this is something innocent. You think you know her, because you are the last remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden. But you do not understand the sort of person she was before she became a Grey Warden, and nor do you understand the sort of person she will become again before the end.”

“And neither do you,” he said angrily. “You say these things, but you have no idea who she is either.”

“She is a politician, a noblewoman raised to wed kings and forge alliances that fundamentally shift nations. You are a Chantry-raised ex-Templar who desperately wants to do what is right.”

“Eideann also wants to do what is right,” he said firmly. “She makes hard decisions and carries the weight of those decisions alone so that we do not have to.” Wynne shook her head.

“She does not understand that the burden you both bear may yet demand everything from you. We are not safe, ever, and at any point one or the other of you may die. If something happened to you, what do you think would happen to her?”

“She would continue on. She would be strong and do what must be done.”

“And what if it were the other way around. What if she were the one to fall, and you were the one left? What then?” He swallowed, feeling the thick distaste that rose at the suggestion in the back of his throat. 

“I would go on. I would have to.”

“Would you?” He narrowed his eyes.

“I am also a Grey Warden. I know the cost of that better than you do. And Eideann Cousland is not some heartless noble who will sacrifice anything for her own power,” he said angrily. “It was she, not I, that argued with Knight-Commander Greagoir against the annulment of the Circle Tower. I was prepared to go in there and do my duty as a Templar.” Wynne looked like she had taken a blow at that, and he drew a breath. “Whatever fear of love that you have, Wynne, do not project it onto us. We don’t know where we are going. We don’t even know what will happen to us tomorrow. Or even today. But I need her.” He heard the words and the realized he had said them and he stopped short a moment to consider that. Then he looked away. “I need her strength, her dedication, and her courage to continue on when so much has been lost. And when she needs those things, I will be there for her as well.” He shook his head, turning to the door, and then looking back at her. “Leave it alone, Wynne. If it ends, then it ends, and we will deal with that as we must. Let us have a small ounce of happiness to cling to in this world for now. Or what is the point in trying to save it at all?”

He left her standing there and found Shale waiting outside the room, dwarf remains cleaned from its stone fists now, for which Alistair was very thankful. He motioned to the golem to follow him, and the golem did after a moment of consideration, for which he was also very thankful.

“The painted elf and the yellow-haired Grey Warden went back to speak with the cowardly dwarf lord,” Shale said flatly. “Why, I cannot begin to guess.” Alistair was getting used to the sardonic commentary on everything they did, but he was amused to see the dwarves surprised by the fact the golem spoke, even now. That would never get old. “It has been fighting with the Elder Mage.” Alistair narrowed his eyes.

“No, not fighting. Just asking for a truce,” he said quietly. “And that’s not really any of your business, is it?”

“If it insists of doing squishy and distasteful things with the other Grey Warden in front of thousands of dwarves, how can it suggest that it is none of my business?” the golem said in reply, simply and steadily. Alistair flushed a little red and brushed it aside. “I find it very odd. Is there a reason it enjoys following others so much? Especially when it is in a position to lead?” Alistair sighed, pacing across the bridge and avoiding looking at the lava on either side of the path. He did not like being over the lava lake at all.

“Have you ever been responsible for someone else’s life? Or a lot of other lives? Or an entire nation?” he asked simply. The golem stomped along beside him, massive footsteps echoing across the stone bridge floor and about the cavern. 

“Of course not.”

“Then…shut…up.” Alistair turned to give Shale a glare and the golem stared back. Alistair imagined it was doing its best to glare in return. 

“I will remember this moment when the birds come,” the golem muttered and then fell silent.

Alistair found Eideann back within the Harrowmont estate where she was loitering about, leaning on the wall, waiting for him with Dulin Forender. The dwarf looked none too pleased to see Zevran still in the party, and the assassin was doing that trick of cleaning under his nails with his knives again. It made Alistair decidedly nervous to see it.

“I hear,” Dulin said, “that your performance in the Proving was nothing short of amazing.” Alistair gave a grim sigh, noting that Eideann was still only putting her weight on her unharmed leg. “There can no longer be any doubt – “ his eyes flickered a moment to Zevran who pointedly ignored him – “where your sympathies lie. If you are ready, Lord Harrowmont will see you now. His Lordship is looking forward to meeting you.” Eideann pushed herself off the wall.

“It would be an honor,” she said, and her eyes flickered to Alistair. He had been hoping to catch up before she made it there so he could have a few words with her, but that now seemed impossible. 

High General Lord Harrowmont was every bit as old as he had seemed upon their arrival, grim-faced and a little sad. His grey beard was woven into a number of braids that spilled in thick ropes down his chest. He wore surface-silk clothing in dwarven styles and colors. His staff lay on the stone desk where he had a number of books and papers spread out as if he were researching something. He considered them with tired eyes.

“I appreciate what you have done, Warden,” he said, his eyes falling on Eideann at their fore. “And I apologize for putting one of your rank through such trials.” Eideann simply shifted her weight a little. “I am Lord Pyral Harrowmont and I thank you for your efforts to help me preserve King Endrin’s throne.” Harrowmont motioned to a stone seat before the desk, noting Eideann’s weight distribution, and took his own as well to look at her across the table. Proper business then, it seemed. Alistair hovered close to Eideann’s chair, and Zevran had his back to them all, facing the door where they had come from. He was watching their escape, Alistair realized with discomfort.

“So tell me then why it is that the late King Endrin would prefer you over his own son,” Eideann said simply. Harrowmont sighed, lacing his fingers together on the stone tabletop before him, his eyes small and shrewd. 

“You may not know the story, but Bhelen is actually the youngest of three. Endrin’s eldest, Trian, was murdered in the Deep Roads not a year ago. His middle son was found standing over the body and was exiled, but I’ve always found it suspicious that Bhelen knew just where to look.” Alistair crossed his arms, letting one hand rest on the top of his sword hilt just in case, and caught Zevran smile to himself out of the corner of his eye. If the assassin knew he had done something, then there really was no doubt. “Endrin loved his sons too much to voice such suspicions, but he knew Bhelen’s only interest in ruling was to further his own power.” Eideann’s face betrayed nothing of what she thought, but the tired Harrowmont settled back in his chair to wait her out.

Finally, Eideann wet her lips.

“And you would be the better choice?” Eideann asked him. Harrowmont’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I have never sought the throne. My role was to serve Endrin, first as his advisor, then as an elected deshyr in the Assembly. A Harrowmont has never been king, and I always assumed Trian would rule after his father. But both Endrin and my colleagues have asked me to step up, and I will not back down when Orzammar needs me.” It was Eideann’s turn to lace her fingers together before her and lean in towards the dwarven Lord. 

“The reluctant ruler always did make a good counterweight against the tyrannical heir,” she said in a measured voice. “You play this game well, but not enough to fool me, Lord Harrowmont. Let us dispense with this foolishness. You know why I am here, and it was not to talk about making you King.” Harrowmont glared at her, and then rose, pacing.

“Fair enough, I shall get to the point, Warden. Neither Bhelen nor I has enough support to rally the Assembly. Vote after vote has been cast, but the deshyrs are divided and the longer it goes on the more inevitable civil war becomes.” He sighed. “But there are ways to gain support, even now. Orzammar, even at the noble level, runs on a few simple principles.”

“The Caste system, the darkspawn defense, and the lyrium trade with the surface,” Eideann said simply, earning a considering look from Lord Harrowmont and a troubled agreement.

“These are the only things that will sway a deshyr’s vote: their Caste, the darkspawn, or their business. And with the darkspawn on the surface for the Blight, they are the least in priority.” 

“So it is business then,” Eideann said softly. Then at Harrowmont’s surprised look she added, “Their trading interests were on debate on the Assembly floor this morning.”

“Just so.”

“I don’t understand. What does this have to do with the votes to make you king?” Alistair asked, and Eideann looked to Harrowmont with a piercing look, crossing her arms.

“Lord Harrowmont will not support us against the Blight until the matter of succession is settled, and to do so he needs more votes,” she said simply. “Orzammar’s lifeblood is the lyrium trade, and when the lyrium trade is disrupted, say by the near-annulment of a Circle of Magi or the potential Caste-based uprising and subsequent reform as considered by one of the potential contenders for the throne, businessmen run scared. To win their votes, he has to prove that he can protect those trade lines. And since we need dwarven soldiers to fight the Blight, he intends for us to serve as that protection.” Alistair grimaced, then looked at Lord Harrowmont who was watching them with a guarded look.

“How do you know?”

“Because the old money of blood and the new money of trade reign supreme in all nations,” Eideann said simply. “The same is true on the surface as much as it is here. Antiva is case in point.” Zevran drew a breath, glancing back at them with a nod.

“So then…?”

“That depends entirely on what Lord Harrowmont asks of us next,” Eideann said, fixing her piercing eyes on the man who shifted uncomfortably. Then he sighed.

“Have you heard of a woman named Jarvia and the criminal Carta she runs?” Harrowmont asked. He said the name like they should know it. Eideann waited for him to continue. “The Assembly receives pleas every day from the common folk, begging that something be done about her. So far, no one has managed. Jarvia hides her base in Dust Town, the raw edges of the city where no one lives but casteless and criminals.” He looked at them each in turn. “If you would help me in this, it would show the Assembly that I, and not Bhelen, have the ability to defend and rule this city.”

“What, you want us to take out an entire Carta?” Alistair stared at the man. The Cartas were known even on the surface, a nebulous smuggling and mercenary network that spanned all of Thedas and made itself rich on the margins of every society. The Carta branches were made of literally hundreds of people on the surface, tying together surfacers with Orzammar’s lyrium smugglers. If a criminal wanted to hide, they got in good with the Carta, and that was that. Even he knew you did not just take out an entire Carta branch, especially not on Orzammar’s streets. This one was probably the original Carta.

“Not the whole Carta, just Jarvia,” Harrowmont said. Eideann sighed, pushing herself up.

“We will deal with Jarvia,” Eideann said in her dangerously quiet voice. “Be ready to help against the Blight.” Harrowmont read her mood perfectly, because he watched them all rise, and his eyes flickered to Zevran an instant in concern. Then he nodded. 

“I promise if I take the throne, I will not stop until the Assembly sends your troops.”

“My treaty compels any king of Orzammar, and if the dwarves break that treaty, I am the Teyrna of Highever,” Eideann Cousland said. “It is entirely within my power to isolate Orzammar forever.” Harrowmont read that threat with ease and gave a grim nod, and Dulin Forender led them out, a scowl on his face.

Alistair grimaced, shaking his head and wondering exactly how long they would stay alive if Eideann insisted on threatening every single person with any power around here. 

But at last there was some time to speak with her, and Eideann’s leg was still sore, so they made for Tapsters to rent rooms. There was no way on that leg Eideann was going to climb back out of the heart of the Frostbacks and then sleep in a tent.

He would have the chance to speak to her there, he decided, and held his tongue as they descended the steps into the Commons. There, near the bottom, the Diamond Quarter guards were engaged in some sort of argument with a dwarf in red and silver armor with the reddest hair Alistair had ever seen. The dwarf stank of ale and sweat, and he growled at the guard. There was no way to go around, not yet, so they were forced to wait, and Eideann leaned against the tunnel wall with a sigh, arms crossed.

“It’ll be two years tomorrow! By all the holy sodding ancestors, how can you people just ignore that?!” the red haired dwarf was saying, swaying a little from the drink. The guard shook his head.

“Branka didn’t go alone, Oghren. She took the whole house. Everybody but you. So just get over to Tapsters and drown yourself already. You know as well as I do that’s how this always ends.” Charming. The drunk dwarf who regularly harassed the guards. A nice addition to any town, if not a little cliché.

“You think I’m afraid of some cub warrior who’s barely off the teat?” the drunken man roared. “I’ll - !”

“You lift a weapon or attack a single citizen in Orzammar,” the guard said gruffly, “and you’re stripped of your caste and exiled. Even you can’t have forgotten that.” Ah so the drunk dwarf who regularly hassled the guards had a record. More cliché. Eideann was looking with a flat look, like she were doing that reading between what was actually said thing again. Alistair glanced back to the dwarves.

“A nug has more balls than you,” the redheaded one, Oghren, spat, and then stalked off. The guard sighed and looked back to them despairingly. 

“Can you believe it? He’s barely even Warrior Caste anymore and he just clomps in here like he’s entitled,” he said with a heavy sigh. “He killed Lord Meino’s youngest son in a duel to first blood. It was a huge scandal. Oghren should’ve been executed, but he’d won honors in the Deep Roads. Instead, they stripped him of all weapons and forbid him from engaging in any fights within city limits. If he breaks the decree, he’ll be exiled.” Alistair blinked, looking after the redheaded dwarf, but he had vanished. Eideann pushed away from the wall.

“Who is Branka?” she asked. The guard helped her down the steps, holding out a hand which she took, and then considered her.

“His wife, our Paragon. She vanished into the Deep Roads two years ago, took their entire house but left him behind. The search teams who went out found nothing, but Oghren wants to keep risking lives searching.” Eideann’s eyes narrowed, and then drew a breath.

“Well, we had best let you get back to your post,” she said courteously. “Thank you.” She left him then, the guard offering them a bow and murmuring a farewell.

The Commons was alive with merchants who called out their wares to them as they passed. All day they had ignored them, going back and forth about their business, but now, for the first time, Eideann paused as she passed one of the booths, freezing in her tracks and staring at the table. On it lay all manner of ornaments and objects and jewelry, things of wrought gold and silver and precious gemstones. She considered them a moment, and the merchant came over with a grin on his face, sensing a sale. Alistair pulled at her sleeve a little, but she pulled away and stepped up to the table.

“That,” she said, pointing to one of the objects on the table. It was a mirror cast of gold lying on its face. On its back were two halla, twined together.

“A fine piece. The goldsmith’s son lives on the surface, and he sends back fabulous pictures of creatures that couldn’t possibly be real...”the merchant was saying.

“How much?”

“Topsider gold?” the merchant pondered a moment, then smiled. “Two hundred silver.”

“One hundred.”

“One fifty.”

“One hundred,” Eideann said again.

“You don’t understand how bartering works, do you?” the merchant sighed. “Fine, one twenty five. That’s as low as I will go for it.”

“Fine.” Eideann dug her coins from her pouch, which seemed significantly lighter now that Alistair’s attention had been brought to it, and she paid the man. He wrapped the ornament up in soft cloth and she took it carefully. When she turned around, she met Alistair’s eyes, surprised, as if she had not remembered he was watching.

“A mirror?” he asked. Her eyes flickered down to her package, then back up.

“My sister-in-law had one very similar once,” she said softly. “It made me think of her.” He fell silent then, because her voice had the weakness in it she got when she was thinking of something that made her very sad. He let it be, and she nodded, sliding the mirror into her bag and then climbing the Commons steps towards the tavern. 

The man in the inn had food, but it was roast nug again, and deep mushrooms, which would be fine if the ale was not dirt. He did have rooms available, however, and he rented two of them out for cheap, since they were Grey Wardens, and they had won the Proving, so the whole dinner and bedroom ensemble was less than the mirror had been. He also elbowed Alistair in the ribs with a ridiculous grin, and eyed up Eideann with a roaming gaze that Alistair found offensive.

“Good pick,” he said with a grin. “I like them with more meat on them myself, but she’s a paragon of beauty if I do say so myself.”

“Don’t say so yourself,” Alistair said flatly. “Not ever again. She’s taken.” Eideann raised her eyebrows at that, and he flushed. 

The bartender reached over to hand them the keys to their rooms, giving one to Zevran and one to Alistair, and grinned.

“Yours is the first on the left, sir,” he told the elf. “And you and the Lady are on the right. We’re all very interested to hear how the celebration continues after that display in the Provings.” He gave a very obvious wink. Alistair went bright red, and Eideann reached for her knife, cleaning under her fingernails like Zevran had done. It was the same exact sensation that sent Alistair’s skin crawling, and he knew in that moment that such thing was literally a warning sigh for danger. He sighed, and then Eideann shook her head.

“Ser dwarf, if you come anywhere near our room, I shall be feeding you to the darkspawn in strips,” she said simply, and then went back to her dinner. 

_Our room?_ So she meant to go through with it then. Alistair felt a knot form in his stomach. He had wanted to talk to her, but this…this was sudden and forced and he did not like it. He looked to her, but she did not look back.

“I…err…” He pushed his plate away, half-finished, and rose. “I’ll see you upstairs.” And he left her there, taking the key, with half a mind to lock the door behind him and solve the problem.

But then the other bedroom was Zevran’s, and the elf would have absolutely no qualms taking advantage of that situation. No, he decided, he would leave it unlocked. But it made him very nervous. 

***

 _By the love of all that is holy._ Eideann kept her head down, picking at her food. She was hungry, but not for whatever she was eating, and the teasing that had made her the butt of every joke in the tavern was enough to put her off. 

Alistair had taken the easy solution, going off to bed without another word to her after his initial announcement, as if that was going to make it better. He had vanished among jeers, and the dwarves were watching her now to see what she would do next. 

She should leave. She should go up to the surface and sleep in a tent and let that be that. She heard Angus whine by her ankles, and she looked down. His big eyes were watching her, his head tilted. 

“Not you too,” she muttered and looked away, turning her attention to the stone tabletop. With her leg still sore and needing rest, she had to stop climbing stairs at some point, or she would not be able to deal with the Carta the following day. There was, she admitted, no way she could make it up to the surface again. Anyway, once there she would have to deal with Wynne, and that was not something she wanted to do yet. Let the mage deal with her own doubts. Alistair had stayed to speak to Wynne after she had left with Zevran, and she really did want to know what had transpired once she was gone. 

And she was tired. Too tired. She finally gave in. 

She would go to the room, and there she would tell Alistair that she could just sleep on the floor. She was almost positive that dwarves had stone beds anyway.

So at last she rose, amidst jeers, Angus at her heels, and she crossed to the rented rooms with a sigh. Zevran met her at the door with a sly look and a small nod.

“Sleep well, _Bella_ ,” he said, and Eideann gave him a glare before he turned to his own bedroom. Shale, who never slept anyway, just stood in the corner of the common room and glared at all the creatures there. If she was not so exhausted, Eideann would have worried that the golem was contemplating the murder of everyone there. As it was, given all the current circumstances, she was not quite sure if she cared.

The door was closed, and she wondered for a moment if he had locked it, but when she tried the door handle it opened, swinging in, and Alistair looked up, surprised, before turning away embarrassed. He was halfway through taking of his Grey Warden plate, and so she turned to remove her own from over the top of her tunic and set it aside carefully. She eyed up the mended tear in her leggings once the metal plate was set aside and sighed to herself before putting aside her blades. Her knife she kept tucked beneath her belt at her back. She would never be caught unarmed again. Angus, being Angus, draped himself over a stone chair in the corner and promptly fell to snoring. Eideann watched him a moment, then started at the sound of Alistair giving a soft cough. She blinked, turning around, catching sight of him in his Grey Warden tunic, and he looked very nervous.

“I…look, Eideann…”

“Whatever they think is going to happen,” Eideann said suddenly, fiercely, perhaps more so than she had intended, “it isn’t. It won’t.” He looked instantly relieved, and she sighed herself, crossing her arms and drawing the pendant on its silver chain out from her tunic to weave between her fingers. “I…I can’t…”

“Good. I mean…I just…” Eideann nodded, but she did not look up. Alistair eyed the bed up.

“I can…sleep on the floor,” he said suddenly. But Eideann had been wrong, and the bed was a mattress stuffed with down and covered with surface cotton, and large enough for them both.

“I…slept in your tent after that dream,” she said softly, almost too softly to hear.

“Yes,” he replied. It was neither a confirmation of what she was suggesting or a dismissal.

“So…”

“Is that…what you want?” He looked like he had never in his life been in such a situation before. But they had. A few times now. So Eideann drew a deep breath and then forced herself to meet his gaze, seeing the flush on his cheeks from his embarrassment.

“Let’s be adults about this and admit that this is awkward because it’s actually in an inn room for once, and that we have to make the best of it, because we both need to be at our best in the morning. That will not happen if we are sleeping on a stone floor again.” He nodded, easing a little, and then reached for the candle made of a strange oil covered in red glass. He blew it out, and the room went dimmer, so that only the lamp near Angus still flickered. 

“I don’t want it completely dark, just in case,” he told her, and she nodded, because she did not want it that way either. She turned and carefully slid the latch into place over the door.

They did not know what to do then, either of them, so Eideann moved first, sitting down on the side of the bed and unlacing her boots with some effort for her injured thigh. She set them aside rather deliberately so she could slip them on if need be, and then she pulled her legs up onto the bed and felt herself sink into the mattress. Which was immediately wonderful, because the last mattress she had slept on had been Crestwood’s Spoiled Princess lumpy nonsense the night after they had departed the Circle Tower. She curled up on her side, her good side given her injury, and then snuggled down into the pillows.

And then she felt Alistair’s weight sink into the other side of the mattress, and it was all very awkward again. She pushed the thoughts away, because they had slept so close before now, the night in his tent after she had dreamt of Highever in the wake of Leliana’s song, the night in the woodshed when she had been so tired and cold he had simply gathered her into his arms without thinking and smothered them both with blankets and their fur-lined Warden cloaks until they were warm. 

But this was different. They were in an actual room, a real bed, and the door was locked, and there was no Angus nuzzled alongside them now. And...

His hand found hers in the dim light, fingers twining together, as he wrapped himself around her.

“Is this alright?” he asked her in a near whisper. “I just…wanted to hold you.” She was still a moment, unmoving, until finally she drew a deep breath.

“Alright.” She could feel his head at her back, his breathing moving her hair and tickling a little over the top of the collar of her Warden tunic. His arms were warm, and he fit against her, and she focused on that instead.

 _Is it too soon for this?_ She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe.

“I…spoke with Wynne,” he said, his voice a little stronger now but still quiet. “I don’t like that this happened weeks ago and no one bothered to tell me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” she said softly. “We spoke about this already, in the forest, and then she went and – !”

“Eideann…” 

The way her name sounded on his lips made her fall silent. It was a gentle sound, soothing, as if he were calling her back from the brink of…what exactly? 

“I…I know.” His voice sounded a little hoarse, like he was still trying to struggle over the words. “We don’t know what this is, it just is. And I told Wynne that whatever else, I was glad we have this, even if it does eventually end. I just…” He stopped, and she heard him exhale like he were drawing up courage. “Maker, Eideann, I don’t even know what this is. I don’t know what comes next…There are so many things to do, and this…I like having this. I like having you…” 

Something dawned on her at his words, and her lips parted. She realized then exactly what it was that he was so embarrassed about, and she started, turning to look at him.

“Alistair, if you were raised in the Chantry, have you never…?” She could not even bring herself to say it. But suddenly it made so much sense. How could she miss it? He had been in the Chantry from age ten until Duncan recruited him six months before Ostagar. All his blushes, all his awkward moments, the looks he gave her when he thought she could not see… He looked at her, startled, then turned his head slightly.

“Never…? Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?” She blinked, then gave a soft laugh. But he pressed on, undaunted, because this was Alistair after all and what else had she expected but humor in deflection?

“You know what I mean…” she said softly. He grinned, because suddenly she was the one on the spot. 

“I’m not sure I do,” he said simply. “Have I never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?”

Maker, now she was the one blushing, and the thanked the darkness for hiding it. Licking lampposts? That sounded like something that happened a lot in Orlais. 

“Now you’re making fun of me,” she said softly, and he shook his head against her shoulder, laughing.

“Make fun of _you_ dear Lady?! Perish the thought!” he declared archly, and she tried to pull back a little, but he wrapped her up in his arms and turned his face into her shoulder, hiding his embarrassment from her in the pillows even while his whole body was warm against her. “Well, tell me, have _you_ ever licked a lamppost in winter?” He knew full well what he was doing. She looked to him where he lay pressing himself into her shoulder, and let out a sniff.

“No,” she said simply, closing her eyes. “I have never licked a lamppost in winter.” And that was the truth too. Highever had no lampposts, which were notoriously difficult to keep lit against the sea squall winds that swept across the coast. Outdoor lighting was predominantly accomplished with the use of large bonfires with the added benefit of serving as warning beacons to ships that came to dock. And his other question…Maker, that was going unanswered. He just smiled against her shoulder. She could feel it against the fabric there, and then finally looked up.

“Good. I hear it’s quite painful. I remember one of the younger initiates did it on a dare, once, and there was pointing and laughing. Oh the humanity…” He gave her a wry look, and then reached up to touch her hair softly, and she could see his eyes sparkling in the near darkness, but when he spoke it was solemn and truthful, like he did when she had played along with him enough for him to get the nerve up to answer her. “I, myself, have also never done it. Or _that_.” He looked away a little. “Not that I haven’t thought about it, of course, but…you know…” She considered his profile as he lay back onto his back, one arm behind his head, and then she turned to snuggle up against him in return, mindful of her injured leg which was now almost beneath her. 

“Never had the occasion?” she asked softly. He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. 

“Well, living in the Chantry is…not exactly a life for rambunctious boys,” he said, but he was talking to the ceiling. “They taught me to be a gentleman, especially in the presence of beautiful women such as yourself.” Eideann was quiet a moment, and then she tilted her head up to consider him.

“You think I’m beautiful?” she asked him in the semi-darkness, and his gaze slid to hers. He buried his fingers in her hair, drawing her down into a gentle kiss.

“Of course you are,” he murmured, a small smile on his lips. “and you _know_ it.” She felt a wave of heat go through her body and exhaled softly. “You’re ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you’d probably hurt me for not saying.” She glanced away, feeling her cheeks heat. When other men said such things, she knew them as lies. Not him. Never him. However jokingly he said the words, he meant every one. 

“You flatter me.” He pulled back, turning back onto his back with a grin.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he sighed dramatically. “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.” She sniffed again and he laughed, then shook his head. “Now enough lest your risqué talk make my ears blush.” 

“You were the one who brought up lampposts,” she said softly, and he nudged her into silence with another kiss at her forehead. “I would never hurt you,” she finally said into the silence, and he shifted her in his arms, gathering her close.

“Nor I, you,” he said softly into the darkness.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran hatches a plan and takes Morrigan in search of information about the Carta; Leliana reminisces about the past and tries to earn them some gold; Zevran takes matters with the Carta into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome! :)

He dreamed that night of Rinna and Taliesen, of gasps in the darkness and soft moans and sighs. He dreamed of warm flesh within and without, of contests to see who could outlast the other, of the taste of the lash on his flesh, or of his knife blades kissing his skin, of the soft laugh in her voice, and the gentle timbre of his. He dreamed of times when everything still made sense. And when he woke, he was slick with sweat and hard with desire and angry at himself for it all.

He still loved her. And that was foolish.

And he still loved _him_ too. And that worse than foolish. At least Rinna could only haunt his dreams now and not his footsteps.

He did not like sleeping alone.

His room was simple, carved stone and a little claustrophobic, but the bed was a real bed for once, instead of a bedroll in a tent, and he liked the fact that the door locked, even though the locks would not keep any decent assassin or thief out of the chamber. He thought of the Grey Wardens, just across the hall, and smiled to himself. The dwarven landlords were adamant they would be up to all sorts of interesting trouble, but Zevran knew better. Alistair was the bashful sort, and Eideann careful not to get attached, distrustful of intent. After hearing her story, he did not blame her, and with Alistair’s background it would probably be some time before the two finally realized that there was passion between them they just had not yet discovered. 

That celebratory kiss in the arena had been a good start though. Leliana would be proud of him, because he planned to mind his own business, mostly, and not tease them about it.

Wynne was another interesting turn of events. That elderly mage was frightened of love, had been burned before no doubt. Zevran liked to think he was above such things, could take his pleasure and go without attachment. 

But he still loved her, and he still loved him too, and both of those things made him feel unsettled. 

Orzammar had no sun, and so the days and nights seemed strange because time never felt like it had passed. He did determine it was probably morning by the diminished number of patrons in the common room when he emerged, and this was reinforced when he found Morrigan sitting and waiting for them with a thunderous look.

“Ah, the beautiful enchantress!” he declared, coming to join her, and she gave him a glare.

“You might have sent word you planned to take rooms at the inn.”

“And miss your sizzling anger in the morning?” he asked, flashing a grin, but it was halfhearted because he was still thinking of Rinna and Taliesen. She sniffed airily at him.

“Do not mock me, elf. I shall turn you inside out and leave you to die of exposure.” 

“That sounds thrilling,” he muttered and then ordered some breakfast, which turned out to just be more of that ridiculous nug meat. He longed for bread. Maker, be generous. “Did you have luck in your search?”

“They would not let me in at first. I had to turn into a mouse and sneak in. I imagine I shall be at it for some time.” She sighed, eyeing up his food with distaste as he tucked into it with resignation. “Where are the Grey Wardens?”

“Probably moaning softly in one another’s arms if the innkeeper is to be believed,” Zevran said pointedly. Morrigan raised an eyebrow.

“The Swamp Witch should mind its own business,” came the curt tones near the door and Zevran remembered they had left Shale in the common room for the night because the golem did not sleep and could keep watch and would not have fit up the steps anyway. Morrigan just shot the creature one of her signature glares in return.

“I doubt they are being so foolish when there is work to be done.”

“Ah, yes. That was the other thing. I need you to spy,” Zevran said, looking up from his breakfast.

“I have no intention of – ”

“There is a criminal organization we are going to destroy from within, my lovely woman, and you are able to get in and out without detection.” He took a bite of the nug meat and decided nug was not so terrible, but he still missed bread. And Antivan honeycakes. And leather. 

A wave of homesickness hit him. He should have bought those boots he had seen on his way to the shipyard when they had first come south. He had delayed it, thinking he would get paid soon, and that would be that. He pushed the thought away and smiled to the witch who sat silently, watching him with a flat look.

“Why are we hunting down criminals when we are meant to be gathering an army?” she finally demanded curtly.

“My thoughts exactly,” Shale grumbled.

“I imagine because our beautiful Warden-Commander has decided it is in our best interest in this political game she is playing.” Zevran finished off his breakfast. “Though, while she and that silly virginal man who is so fond of her sleep away the morning, I imagine you and I could do some damage for her.” 

“Why should I do anything for you?” Morrigan said angrily, stubbornly refusing to rise when he did. That left him staring down at her with a cool look.

“Simple, my dear. I helped to slay your dragon of a mother.” She rose at that with a disgruntled look and he smiled merrily. “We must go to the filthy part of town, which should be exciting as all the interesting people live in poverty among the criminals. We shall be right at home.”

“Speak for yourself!” Shale shifted and Zevran shook his head.

“No, my fascinating stone friend. For now, stay and wait for the Grey Wardens. We must be quiet, and that is a bit beyond you I am afraid.” Shale just heaved a great sigh and shrugged. 

“I am not responsible then, should the painted elf be squashed to death.” Zevran gave a smile, and then he turned for the door, glad that the Witch was in tow. It seemed the favor about her mother was a larger thing than he had realized at the time.

But there was still a part of him that could not shake the dreams of Rinna and Taliesen. And that continued to unsettle him, even as they reached the part of Orzammar that smelled of unwashed bodies and rotting food and misery.

Morrigan wrinkled her nose at the stench and the desperation, but Zevran just smiled and thought of the cramped apartment in Antivan where the Crows had kept their potential recruits, packed in like sardines in a tin. He was at home here. He motioned to Morrigan to disappear and she was gone in a flash, a mouse scuttering off and away from him into the alleys of ancient Orzammar. Those buildings were old, single story or one room only, and they were crumbling slowly into dust. Dust Town was what those who lived here called the place, and at least that was accurate. 

There was a woman nursing a wailing baby at one end of the square, and a few thugs in battered leather armor armed with jagged knives that were bartering over something traded illegally. Zevran watched and waited and listened, until at last he drew into the center of one of the neighborhoods and found a cheery dwarven woman considering him. He was no witch like Morrigan to hide here, so he grinned at her and crossed to greet her, and she grinned back. And she almost still had all her teeth. Almost.

“Enjoying the architectural beauty of Dust Town?” she asked him, looking him up and down and smelling money on him even though he had next to nothing. “You need old Nadezda to play tour guide?” Zevran shook his head, crossing his arms and looking about.

“No, my friend, a tour seems a little extravagant around here. Some information, perhaps, though?” Nadezda narrowed her sharp eyes and tilted her head.

“That depends on what information and what its worth to ya,” she said simply, rising. He caught sight of her crippled and twisted legs underneath her and knew her for an ex-thug immediately. Once her usefulness was gone, she had been cast aside. The Crows did much the same. 

“Do you know a woman named Jarvia?” he asked her and she grinned.

“Know her?” she laughed. “I used to run with her.” Then he eyes drew down again, suspicious. “Jarvia took over the Carta not more than a year ago, and already she’s got every Duster with both legs bearing swords for her.” 

“I need to find their base, _pequeña_ ,” he told her, flashing some silver in front of her and setting it down carefully in her hand.

“It’s not easy to find,” Nadezda told him, biting the coin to make sure it was real and then tucking it away inside her skirts. “Jarvia’s got real paranoid. She’s got Carta members all carrying this finger-bone tokens. She scratches some mark into them, so she’ll know they came from her.” The woman shifted a little on her twisted legs and gritted her teeth, nodding across the square. “There’s doors to her base all over the city, but only one is ever open at a time, and if you show up without a token, you’d never know it was there.” Zevran pondered this a moment, then shot her a small smile.

“Stay safe, _pequeña_ ,” he told her, and then left her to squat back down before the open flame that flickered in the center of the square. 

He took a few different streets after that, meandering through the alleys and working out the best way to get a hand on one of those tokens and find his way into the base. There were outlets all over the city, but one some doors were open? That sounded strange. Then again, the beggar woman had been liable to tell him anything at the look of silver, and he did not really know how reliable she was. 

He found himself on a main thoroughfare with shops lining the dusty streets and decided to go in one. He opened the door to a run-down stone building bearing a faded painted sign saying it was called Alimar’s Emporium. The Alimar was some sort of black-market mover. He considered the oddity that was the elf in his shop with eyes so dark they seemed black, and then scrubbed at the side of his filthy face with dirty fingers.

He had an odd assortment of goods, including any number of things imported from the surface, including Circle Mage robes that were completely useless to all dwarves as a case in point and also a pair of gloves that had the look of Tevinter about them. Zevran mooched about the shop a moment while the dwarf watched him hesitantly. And then at last he turned to face the man.

“Tell me, my friend, what you know about the Carta?” 

“I…I…nothing,” the dwarf stammered. 

“Your goods are surface wares.”

“It’s illegal in Orzammar for my to ‘engage in protected trade’,” the dwarf said hurriedly, “but they look the other way if I share things with my friends. For money.” Zevran gave a mirthless chuckle, then shook his head.

Something caught his eye, a dagger he recognized without a second glance. It was the standard issue given the Antivan Crows. He stared at it a moment, then his eyes flickered back to the dwarf and he lifted it from the table.

“Where did you get this?” he said in a low voice. If there were Crow daggers in Orzammar, he did not like what that may mean.

“I…someone from the surface brought it.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know! Some dwarf who works topside and sometimes shares the goods down here!” The dwarf said worriedly.

“Where did he get it?”

“I have no idea! I don’t get paid to ask questions!” the man protested. “Please, if there’s nothing you want, you’ll just have to – AHHHH!” He leaped backwards and stared in shock as Morrigan materialized from the floor in a flash of light.

“I have found a pack of them,” she reported to Zevran after giving Alimar a one-over look in distaste. “We will want to go quickly to surprise them.” Zevran sighed and dropped the dagger, refusing to answer when Morrigan gave him and it a questioning look, and then glared at the shopkeeper.

“If you tell them we were here, my friend, I shall return,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “And my friend here can be very persuasive.”

“I…I won’t say a word!” Alimar stammered, watching them with fearful eyes, backed into the corner of his shop. So Zevran let him go, stepped back through the door and onto the dirt street. Morrigan followed him, yellow eyes narrowed, and then pushed past him to lead him along the alleyways. 

The house they were searching for was near the center of Dust Town, which Zevran was beginning to suspect was larger than every other part of Orzammar combined. Morrigan paused at the top of the street and nodded towards the house door. 

“That one,” she said. “They are performing some sort of raid. They will be gone if we do not hurry, and then we will never get in.” So Zevran sighed, drawing his knives.

“Then let us go. Do you know any spells that can put out an entire Carta crew?” 

“Only one,” Morrigan said, her lips curving into a deadly smile. “You will want to stay far away when I cast it.” Zevran nodded, and then reached for the doorhandle.

“Then by all means, my Lady, after you,” he declared, and pushed the door inward.

Morrigan apparently knew her own version of a Walking Bomb spell, which was nasty and unnecessarily messy, and resulted in them covered in gore and blood. Some of the Carta had escaped the majority of the carnage, though not entirely. One man, his head covered in whatever remained of his party, stood quivering and confused, like he had never seen such a thing before. And to be fair, in Orzammar that appeared quite likely. 

Zevran had him at knifepoint in an instant, and the man put up his hands. The scent of urine suddenly filled the air, sharp and tart and pungent, and Zevran looked down to see that the dwarf had gone so far as to wet himself. Morrigan made a noise of disgust and Zevran raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t kill me!” he whined, his axe clattering to the ground into the puddle of piss at his feet. “Sodding ancestors, what do you teach you on the surface?! Sweet bloody Stone, look at them all!” His eyes darted to his dead and dying colleagues, some barely more than pieces from the brunt of Morrigan’s spell, and his face crumpled a little as he fought back tears of fear. “Don’t kill me!” he said again.

“Tell us where your base is,” Zevran said in his most charming voice. The man gave in almost immediately. 

“It’s below the city,” he sobbed. “You….you can get to it through the wall of the third house on this row. You need a token. Put it through the slot and it’ll open.” Zevran held out his hand and the dwarf fished about inside a pouch at his belt and drew forth one of the tokens. He dropped it into Zevran’s hand. “Please…will you let me go?” Zevran stared at the dwarf, soaking in his own urine and shaking like a leaf in a stiff fall breeze, tears spilling onto his cheeks, and sighed, turning away.

“I will not kill you, my pathetic little friend, but you had best be gone if I decide to come back.”

“Of…of course! Thank you! Oh, thank you!” He forced himself awkwardly up from his knees to his feet and took off through the door running. Morrigan watched him, then looked back to Zevran.

“You should have killed him,” she said simply. 

“Yes,” Zevran admitted, “but I could not end such a pitiable creature.” In reality though, he was still thinking of Rinna, on her knees, Taliesen’s blade at her throat, begging for her life. 

No, he could not have done it. Not with such memories so close to bear.

_Whose dagger had it been in that Alimar’s shop? Was it his?_ There were no other Crows in Ferelden, and it had been recently cared for. It made him particularly nervous, even down here buried beneath the mountains. The sooner they had moved on, the better.

***

It was the sort of day that would be sunny and wonderful further down the slopes, but high within Gherlen’s Pass it was simply too bright. The sun reflected shards of light across the crystalline snows, making the Frostbacks glow. Leliana sat on the stone circle in the center of the outdoor market softly strumming the lute she had purchased with almost the last of their coin. Beside her, a slowly growing pile of other coins were building up, donations from people who loved the sound as it echoed up into the peaks, soft and lilting. She sang sometimes in Orlesian too, and that had earned her more from the merchant wagons that had gathered there at the border, unable to go further thanks to Loghain’s decree. 

She was mulling over a new tune, softly picking at the strings of her instrument, which she had carefully tuned for almost an hour after her purchase. It was a gentle song, a little sad. She did not know the words yet, but they would come to her. She knew the chorus though…

_I am the one who can recount what we’ve lost. I am the one who will live on._

Eideann Cousland’s words had been like a beacon in the darkness for her, a rallying call. 

_We all must own our darkness. We all must remember._ She bent her head and coaxed a few more notes from the lute with a somber look.

She was thinking of Marjolaine and Orlais. It had been some months since the mercenaries Marjolaine had sent to find her had been dispersed. Eideann had promised they would look in on Marjolaine when they could, but for the moment she was a long way away in Denerim, a city as closed to them as the Black City itself. But soon, Leliana thought, they would cross paths again.

She had loved her once, and paid the price for that love and trust. It had cost her everything she was and everything she had to move beyond Marjolaine and into the welcoming arms of the Chantry. And if she believed, then she believed, and if she did not, the Chantry offered safe harbor when she needed to shelter from a storm. She knew that it would not always be so. There were parts of her she could not deny. With all the pretty lute playing and dancing she had learned in Orlesian social circles under Lady Cecilie, there was also the skills of the bard she had earned from Marjolaine. 

It felt so long ago now, so many years hence. Sometimes she forgot how the time had gone by so quickly. She had felt like she belonged in the Grand Game in Orlais. But she realized that such a game existed in Ferelden too, and Eideann Cousland was wry enough to work out the rules and tread carefully its treacherous paths.

Leliana wanted to help her. She wanted to see this woman succeed where others would not. She had dreamed of the Blight, that much was true, but Eideann Cousland was not just fighting the Blight. She was fighting a Civil War against Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane. Sometimes that knowledge stirred something within her, the part of her that still thought of herself as Fereldan, despite all of Orlais. How many wrongs could they right before the end? How many?

Eideann Cousland planned nothing short of a coup, that much was clear, and also troubling. But at the same point, if anyone could manage it, she had faith Eideann could. Loghain Mac Tir had showed his hand too soon at Ostagar, and again in Lothering where they had first met. And in sending Zevran, he had continued to make the same mistakes. Eideann’s political connections gave her the ability to sidestep him, and in those things Eideann looked to her for her assistance. After all, Leliana was trained to dance the political game. 

It was part of what made her leave Lothering behind after carrying it for so long. It was part of what drove her. The promise of playing that game again…Leliana felt like herself for the first time in a long time. 

Someone dropped a few silvers into her small pile and smiled at her, and Leliana looked up and smiled, switching songs to something popular in Orlesian salons when she had left for Ferelden with Marjolaine. 

There was the matter of Arl Eamon yet, and the journal Eideann had purchased and left with her had proved a little more enlightening in hindsight. Brother Genetivi was a well-known Chantry scholar who had travelled across Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches to record history and folklore. His works were well-known if sometimes biased accounts of Thedosian cultures that could be found in most libraries and household collections. The journal recounted several different adventures prior to Brother Genetivi’s latest quest: the search for Andraste’s Urn of Sacred Ashes. It was said that Havard the Aegis was healed by the ashes before bringing them south from Tevinter and hiding them safe from the Imperium and all who would seek to use them irreverently. The Chantry believed such a thing was a myth.

Leliana had heard rumors of Genetivi seeking the Urn when she had been in Lothering, often amidst scorn and derision. But with Arl Eamon ill and his knights also seeking it, and this journal being discovered in a camp to the south, she had a renewed interest. Genetivi’s research had pointed to a town called Haven, located far into the Frostbacks and forgotten by time. Whatever lay at Haven was a step in the right direction, and to be able to find the Temple of Sacred Ashes Havard and the other disciples were said to have built for the Maker’s Bride…

She glowed with the chance.

She switched songs again and looked up when a shadow fell across her. It was Wynne, wrapped in a thick fur-lined cloak from Soldier’s Peak, who looked concerned. She had returned the day before looking angry and troubled, and Leliana had been unable to coax the story from her. But whatever it had been was disturbing, since Zevran had come to summon her for urgent healing. And that made Leliana worry about Eideann and Alistair. Shale, being Shale, would be just fine. 

“You play beautifully,” Wynne said after listening for awhile, and Leliana smiled slightly. Wynne reminded her of Lady Cecilie, so gentle and always worried and wise. She shook her head.

“I am practiced, is all,” she said softly. “And I told Eideann I would try to earn us more money.” Wynne’s smile slipped slightly at that, and Leliana sighed. “What is the argument about?” 

“What do you mean?” Wynne asked, looking to her, then turning away.

“You and Eideann were in a fight, and now you have both been avoiding one another.”

“She is being stubborn. Pay it no mind, Leliana,” Wynne replied. “All things happen for a reason.”

“You are concerned,” Leliana said after a moment, “about her and Alistair.” Wynne blinked, her teal gaze fixing on Leliana’s grey gaze a moment, and then she sighed.

“I am only worried for them both.” Leliana nodded, then smiled softly and strummed a few more notes.

“I think it is beautiful,” she said softly. “They have both lost so much that was dear to them. They know the pain of loss. It makes love sweeter when we understand what is at stake.”

“And if this too should become a loss?” Leliana looked up at her with curious eyes.

“Why, they will persevere, of course,” she said simply. “They are people, not wilting flowers that will be trampled underfoot if their hearts are broken. Let them have this beauty, even if it is fleeting.”

“Alistair said something similar,” Wynne told her, arms crossed about herself for warmth, “though not quite a poetically as you.” Leliana smiled.

“He spoke of it?” she asked, switching songs again. Wynne nodded and Leliana let out a soft sigh of contentment. “Eideann makes him bold. I think it is a good thing, to see that he can stand up for what he believes. She does not let him only blindly follow.” Wynne pondered it and Leliana gave a soft laugh. “He is like a puppy, so Fereldan, following at her heels. If he is learning to bark a little, let him.” And then she settled into her playing with a warm smile.

She had been a puppy once, and barking had caused her to get burned. Marjolaine had turned her concerns into danger and caught her in the spider’s web. Eideann, she knew, would not do such a thing. She did not believe Eideann to be as heartless as Marjolaine. Her anguished look as she stared out over the roiling waters of the newly formed lake of Crestwood was proof enough. Marjolaine would never have stood and forced herself to remember the people who had lived below. Eideann may be ruthless and capable of making difficult decisions with precision and ferocity, but she was not heartless. She defended those she could. And that made all the difference. She carried the weight of her decisions in silence and let that be, presumably because she was certain that others needed to see her do so. 

Leliana strummed the last few notes and then rose, brushing off her armor and collecting her earnings. 

“Come, Wynne,” she said with a smile, taking the old lady’s arm in her own. “There is a little stand across the market that sells roast pheasant. Let us go and find something to eat.” Wynne just sighed, a small smile on her lips.

“Alright, Leliana, I will let you distract me just this once.” Leliana gave a soft chuckle.

“What do you think? Shall we get some for Sten as well? He’s such a big softy he’ll probably be grateful.” Wynne just sighed and laughed as well.

“Or he’ll be grumpy as always. But it would be cruel to leave him unfed.” Leliana nodded, and settled her lute on its strap across her shoulder.

“Come then. Let us buy the large man some food.”

***

Jarvia’s Carta base was little more than a series of crudely cut tunnels that spiraled through the Orzammar stone and occasionally led to buildings. Zevran was surprised to learn that in Orzammar the Carta apparently included Tal-Vashoth mercenaries and elven apostates, though he was not surprised at the appeal of joining. The Carta were the foremost lyrium smuggling operation in Thedas, regardless of country, and it was easy to see how the appeal of good blood-soaked coin could turn almost anyone into a recluse who lived under a mountain. 

He crept along the passageways and slipped past these guardsmen, reveling in the challenge. It had been too long since he got to do any proper infiltrating, and the way his heart raced and his blood pounded was thrilling.

He had only intended to scope out the location, but it was not the compound he had expected, but an illicit highway for all the riffraff in Orzammar to travel unseen. It was quite clever really, and he admired whoever had founded the Carta, and he admired this Jarvia for keeping it going. In fact, with all the conflict about who would be king, this Jarvia was playing both sides, and that was something that made Zevran smile. The nobility so often forgot to watch their step when shadows danced about their feet until they were swallowed whole. 

He was glad he had chosen to come here with Morrigan first and leave the Grey Wardens behind for the time being. The Witch was certainly a helpful sort, even if disagreeable and distrustful, and the Grey Wardens had been so caught up in the problems of everyone else so far, this was something he could do. He had known the moment Harrowmont had decided to pose the challenge that this was not simply the removal of a Carta head. This was a political assassination, and frankly that is what he did best. He did not normally work for free, but his skills needed polishing up, and he figured he owed Eideann for sparing his life.

In honesty, he had come to Ferelden on a different job, and when the call had gone out for Crows to hunt Grey Wardens, next to no one had bid for the contract. It was a suicide mission, and the murder of Grey Wardens did not sit well with anyone, not even the Crows. He had been prepared to head back to Antiva, to face Taliesen and the bastard that had set them against Rinna. Rinna, sweet Rinna, who had never lied to them, who they had killed for a treachery that she had never committed. He felt sick at the thought, and sad, and seeing Taliesen covered in Rinna’s blood…

He had bid for the contract. He could not go back. One last job, one last try, and if he died in the attempt…

But Eideann Cousland had not let him die. She had given him this purpose instead, and conscripted him into her service to help her win a Civil War, to get her own vengeance for treachery. And he was grateful now for that. He had had the time to figure out what he wanted now, and what he wanted was a life free of the Crows, a chance to earn his repentance for Rinna, and a chance to mourn her memory the only way he knew how. 

And Taliesen…one day he would need to deal with Taliesen. But for now, he would focus on the task at hand. Zevran Arainai was going to assassinate Jarvia of the Carta. 

And that would make his deal with Eideann square. 

He slipped along the corridors through ancient tunnels which sometimes became the carved interiors of dwarven homes before slipping once more into tunnels. The carved interiors were never connected to exteriors, however, which was strange, like they had been built to just look pretty on the inside. The outside was the mountain itself. Zevran did not like the impending feeling of being crushed that threatened to settle over him at that thought, so he pushed it aside.

The first of Jarvia’s Carta to fall was a dwarf loitering about in supply room that was stocked with all manner of armor and weapons and other gear for the thugs the Carta employed. Zevran slipped silently through the chambers, silencing any he could not avoid.

In his pocket, he could feel the shifting of a small ball of fluff that was Morrigan as a mouse. It hardly seemed fair that he had to do all the work, but he was the one who had asked her to come, and should the need arise, she was ready to assist, to emerge and transform and drop all the pain of magic on the heads of these foolish dwarves.

It was easy to slip past the Qunari, because they made so much noise as they lumbered about they did not notice him at all. The dwarves were quicker, and more attentive, making a business out of being sly and fast and capable, and twice he was forced to come to true parried blows to end one of the Carta before they could alert the others.

He climbed for what seemed a good half an hour, until he was certain they were now up somewhere near the Commons. He found a chamber which was full of prison cells and paused to consider them. Within one, a dwarf lay, looking worse for wear, his hair in tight braids along his scalp.

“You…please…stranger…let me out. I see you bear no love for Jarvia. Please, help me…” His voice was coarse and weak from his imprisonment, and Zevran considered him a moment, then crossed his arms. Morrigan squirmed in his pocket again.

“And if I let you out, what will you do?”

“Run. I have to…get out of here…please…”

“No.” The dwarf looked at him with wide eyes, hopelessness on his face. Zevran eyed him up. “You will help me.” 

“What?”

“You are a Carta dwarf,” Zevran said simply. The man had all the signs even if he was in a cage. Hard times perhaps? “You will show me where to find Jarvia.” At this rate the whole exploration of these tunnels would take him all day.

There was a squeak in his pocket he pointedly ignored.

“But…” he looke desperate, then sighed. “Find me a knife and I will show you.” Zevran drew forth his infiltration tools and deftly puzzled the lock until it fell open. He swung the cage door open wide for the dwarf who slipped past him, looking about like he could hardly believe he was free. “Th-thank you. We’ve been down here…” His eyes flickered for a moment to one of the other cages, then away just as quickly. “It’s been so long.” Zevran eyed up the other cages, where the rank corpse of a dwarf lay, face down, rotting away in the cell. They had been left to starve. The living dwarf eyed him up. “Leske,” he said in a less than enthusiastic introduction. “Come on, I’ll show you where to find Jarvia.”

He collected what he could from the corpse of one of Zevran’s fresh kills, squirming into some Dust Town thug armor that did not quite fit and then strapping on a pair of knives with a glum look. He was not relishing this meeting.

“What was that?” Zevran asked him, glancing back to the prison.

“Brosca…a friend,” Leske said in a miserable voice. “We made a mistake, ended up in here. He didn’t make it. Just stopped eating one day and…All for a stupid bet.” Zevran did not need any more information.

“Alright, show me where to find this woman,” he said, and the dwarf nodded and led the way.

He was almost as quiet as Zevran, but perhaps not as quiet as the Crow would have liked. Even so, he took the tunnel maze like he had been walking it all his life. He probably had. 

Jarvia was the sort of woman who wore bracelets made of other people’s teeth. When they had dispatched the guards at the door, Zevran bent to remove Morrigan from his pocket and set the Witch down, where she instantly became a human again and gave him a dark look.

“Picking up strays, elf?” she demanded in a quiet hiss.

“It was faster,” Zevran said simply. “The woman we are looking for is in that room.”

“And what do you expect me to do about that?” He gave her a pointed look and she read his intent in his eyes. “If I do that again in there, we will give away our position to everyone else in the base,” she said firmly. 

“Then do it quietly?” Zevran asked, placing his back to the wall.

“Quietly? You are a fool if you believe I am capable of making things explode quietly.” 

“You are a Witch. You will think of something.” Leske was watching them with a worried look.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, salroka, but this is not the place for big displays. She’ll chew you up and spit you out,” he warned them in a coward’s voice. Zevran smiled slightly.

“I do like dangerous women. My dear Morrigan, if you would be so kind?” He motioned to her and she sighed, drawing on the power for her spell.

“Fine. But if this gets us killed…” She nodded, he threw open the door, and then a lot of things happened at once. Half of Jarvia’s men exploded just as they had in the house in Dust Town. Zevran’s knives ripped from his sheathes and he dove into the fray. Morrigan gave a curse as Leske dove at her, knocking her from her feet, and Jarvia gave a loud laugh from across the room.

“Ah Leske,” she said when the chaos had died down. “Free from your cage, I see.” She looked to Zevran and Morrigan. “I see the nobles finally realized we’re taking the City, but they still can’t be bothered to send their own men. Well you picked the wrong side, stranger. It doesn’t matter who’s king, as long as there’s a queen!” Zevran raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

“They’re here to kill you. I stopped them,” Leske said, his voice shaking. Jarvia grinned, and Zevran sighed. He should have seen that coming. But one dwarf was not a difficult thing to handle. Indeed, there were only a handful of them left in the room. 

“Why you little - !” Morrigan spat, hurling him from her and brushing herself up as she stood. 

“I still gotta live here!” Leske spat. “There aren’t too many options, you know!” Morrigan silenced him with a single spell, pulling the life from him with the sort of magic that made the Chantry so nervous of mages. Zevran had seem something similar before, but never so close. Leske’s body crumpled to the floor, and Morrigan glared.

“Finish what you started, Crow,” she spat at him, and he turned.

Jarvia was a mean fighter, and since she had the forewarning he was coming for her, she proved it. He felt her knives slashing at his flesh where his armor ended, finding his weak spots.

But he found hers as well. And Morrigan had begun setting things aflame in her cold anger. Jarvia wove in and out of the steps, not classically trained but deadly all the same, her knives ringing against his own as they parried and thrust and beat one another about in circles. 

And then Zevran managed to pull a feint, twisting up and about, and his blades found their home in Jarvia’s chest. 

Morrigan’s spell erupted through the chamber again, and the henchmen that had joined the Carta leader fell dead, scorched and charred. Zevran hurriedly moved to bar the door, shaking his head. Morrigan was staring at him when he turned back, looking unimpressed.

“You did not think about all the others? There were Qunari and mages back there!” she said angrily. “Was this actually your plan?” 

“It worked, did it not?” he grinned as the door shuddered under the weight of other Carta members rushing to the scene. “This is hardly the place for such a discussion, my dear Morrigan.” She sighed, then moved away from the door, hurrying up the steps towards the small corridor that angled up again towards the upper districts. Zevran followed her, his blood still pounding, but he wanted to laugh. 

“You are the worst assassin ever,” she said as they burst through a sliding stone wall which actually was a display shelf into the lightly lit chambers of an armory shop. Zevran looked about, registered the shock on the storeowner’s face, and nodded.

“Gah! By all the beards of my ancestors!” the dwarf exclaimed. “How did you…where did you come from?! Y-you made a hole in my wall!” He stared at the tunnel that vanished into the Carta base below. Zevran sighed.

“I think, dwarf, you should find the authorities. The sanctity of your store is about to be compromised by the Carta,” he said and then hurried out before the gaping man could do more. It was only once they were on the paved streets of the Commons that he did laugh. Morrigan looked at him like he was angry. “I have not had so much fun in a long time, my Witchy friend. Thank you.” She arched her brow and shook her head.

“You didn’t have a plan. We could have been killed!” she hissed. “How did you ever make it into the Antivan Crows?” 

“They paid three sovereigns for me,” Zevran grinned. “Now, I suggest we make ourselves scarce before the Carta decides to come looking for us.” 

“You must think me a fool,” Morrigan muttered, stalking off. “I am going back to the Shaperate. When the Grey Wardens need me, they can send for me. And now, elf, our debt regarding my mother is paid. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, my dark beauty,” he called after her, and then turned the other direction towards the pub, a satisfied smile on his face, whistling softly to himself a tune about Antivan washerwomen. All in all, he had had a rather productive morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Notes:_
> 
> On the Urn storyline: Given the fact that travel time matters in this Dragon Age, it seemed ridiculous to go all the way to Denerim to Genetivi's house just to come back, hence the journal/notes. Seeing as what you find in Genetivi's house is notes anyway (along with fake-Weylon), and it always seemed strange that Genetivi wouldn't just take his notes with him when he went looking for the Ashes, I altered the circumstances of finding this information to accomodate for that. Not canon at all, but it does save them weeks of a journey to a place they can't go yet (Loghain's men are all over that place). Genetivi does do a lot of travelling and writing, and was presumably not kidnapped from his house, so it made as much sense as anything else to just have him be captured on the trail. 
> 
> On Zevran and Rinna/Taliesen: I am taking a few liberties here, but I wanted him to have some sort of connection to Taliesen from their years as friends, and I wanted it to be a bigger betrayal that Taliesen was the one who killed Rinna, so Taliesen/Zevran is a thing for this story.
> 
> On Zevran and the Carta: This was originally not the plan to have Zevran take care of this, but I started it off and liked it too much to change it. It just makes sense in my head that he'd go and take out Jarvia if he could, and he is used to planning such things and working alone. Also, Leske was in there too, and I merged his two possible storylines (freed from the cage for most Wardens, turns on the Warden for dwarf commoner) a little because it felt like it would be fitting to his character to do so.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair bonds a little with Angus; Eideann confronts Harrowmont and agrees to go into the Deep Roads; Eideann and Zevran make a back-up plan; Oghren convinces Eideann to let him come with her to find Branka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None

The first thing he noticed was that Eideann was still sleeping silently beside him, a warm bundle in gray silk against his chest, tucked up into his arms. The second thing he noticed was the large mabari watching him with big brown eyes and a silly smile from the foot of the bed. That was startling enough to make Alistair try to sit up, but he instantly regretted moving when he saw Eideann stir.

He knew what it felt like to hold her, or have her lean into him at the very least. She had slept twice before in his arms. But she was right. This was awkward, because this was a real bed in a real inn, and there was all the watching eyes and listening ears of Orzammar to tease them. He could manage Wynne and Leliana’s judgment, or even Morrigan’s as it had been in the woodshed huddled for warmth against the snows. But here…

He considered her face, calm in sleep, for the first time in a long time unplagued by nightmares. Her eyes, those Cousland Blues the color of the rain that fell on the Storm Coast were closed now, thick lashes brushing her cheeks. Her hair was still short, and she seemed to want to keep it that way. It fell now about her face, soft and pale in the lamplight.

He had no idea what time it was, but he felt rested for the first time in a long time, and that made him think rationally about what he was going to do. He imagined Eideann would wake soon as well, and he had no intention of leaving her there to sleep without a locked door. They had enemies here now, as well as everywhere, and she had been hunted since before Ostagar. If anything happened to her…

He would stay then, but he could not stay in the bed. He sighed, carefully shifting his arm out from beneath her until he was free and could rise. And then, with a wistful sigh, he did, reaching for his boots.

There was a thud as Angus flopped down onto the stone floor and plodded over to him with a large, slobbery tongue panting over his greaves. Alistair stomped his feet into his boots and reached to fasten them on, bending to adjust the straps, and then paused, because the mabari was now watching him intently.

“Oh, Maker, when did she last feed you?” He stared at the dog a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t let you out until she wakes up.” Angus gave a low whine, then settled down onto his paws, watching. Maker, it was like dealing with a child. Alistair adjusted his other strap and then considered the black and grey beast. “What did you eat in that castle anyway?” he asked. Redcliffe was known for horses, not mabari, not like up in the north where they apparently bred them as children’s playthings. It was a fair question. What did they feed them? Probably whale meat, knowing the Coastlanders. “I once heard a really old legend,” he said to the dog, reaching for his breastplate and rising to put that on as well, “about how the Hound Warriors, in the days of the old tribes, would feed their mabari the flesh of the vanquished." Angus whined again, burying his face in his paws and Alistair grinned. “Well that’s what I heard anyway. It would sometimes be human flesh.” The dog leapt up and gave a small snarl, tail between its legs. “Oh, like you can tell the difference. For all you know, maybe you’ve already been fed something…someone…” Talking to a dog should not be nearly so entertaining as it apparently was.

“Don’t listen to Alistair, Angus; he’s full of rubbish,” Eideann said, and Alistair looked back with surprise to see her watching them with disheveled hair, half buried within the blankets on the bed. The dark circles under her eyes were gone, but she had clearly only just woken up because she was watching him with squinting eyes that said the light was just too bright yet. She was watching him with that guarded look she sometimes got when she was trying to figure out one of the puzzles she dug from nowhere. He looked away, feeling his face heat a little because she had caught him talking to her dog, and went to buckle the straps of his armor.

And then her fingers found the straps and she was there, kneeling on the bed before him, fastening them securely over his Grey Warden tunic, only a breath away. He could smell her skin, saw the way it glowed a little in the reddish lamplight, and her eyes flickered up to meet his.

“I…” he said softly, but she shook her head, rising ever so slightly higher and then pulling his mouth to hers in a tender kiss. When she broke free, he had to struggle for breath again.

“I’m sorry things were awkward for you with Wynne and last night downstairs,” she said quietly. “It isn’t fair that people think they are allowed a say in such things. Maybe they're right, maybe not. I don’t know. I’m…glad you were here. And…” her gaze flickered to Angus, “I’m glad you get along with my dog. He’s all the family I have left.” She slipped off the bed then, pulling her shoes on as he had done and then working her way rapidly into her own armor with a practiced ease of months on the road.

“Eideann,” he said softly, “last night...were you worried?” She looked back, eyes solemn and open as she shook her head.

“Not for a minute.”

“You…you never did answer,” he asked her. “Have you ever…?” She must have, to be so calm about it all. She just gave a soft smile.

“Is that a question you really want the answer to?” she asked him softly. She would tell him if he said yes. Did it matter? Not really. But still…No. No he did not need to know.

“No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t matter. You’re Eideann Cousland, Warden-Commander of Ferelden. It doesn’t matter who you were before, not to me.” She smiled slightly, that sad smile when she was putting aside her past to think about the now.

“We had best go and work out what we can about this Carta then,” she sighed. “I wonder if Zevran is awake? Is it even still morning?” He shrugged and she laughed, strapping her scabbards to her back and buckling the straps with nimble fingers. “Do you think he will care if we had a lie in.”

When they emerged, Eideann looking far more put together than he imagined he did for such a quick morning routine, they discovered it was past noon actually, and that they were definitely late risers. Not only that, but Zevran sat fleecing a few dwarves out of all their silver at cards, his feet up on the stone table, drinking something that was not dirt ale but rather some special store. And at the far end of the chamber, Shale still stood, staring about at the underpopulated in with a bland stare. Assuming, of course, that the golem’s stare was not always bland. Alistair still could not tell, not even now.

Zevran perked up when he saw them, and so did the dwarves in the common room, who jeered and laughed and made crude motions in their direction until Eideann crossed, helped herself to all of Zevran’s drink, and then stood over them all with her arms crossed. Zevran grinned at her, shaking his head, and the dwarves fell to muttering until Zevran set down his cards, announced he had won – he had definitely cheated, Alistair had been watching – and relieved them all of the last of their coins. Then, gathering up his winning, he considered them.

“I have news, my dear Wardeny friends,” he said as Eideann helped him load the sizeable stack of coppers and silvers into a pouch he kept tucked within his armor the rest of the time. “Our lovely Morrigan and I have been up for some time, and while you were sleeping like children, we have made some progress on our mission.” Eideann looked curious, and pleasantly surprised, which made Alistair wary. Eideann surprised was not something he was certain how to handle after so long of nothing surprising her in the slightest.

“You know where to find Jarvia?” Eideann pressed.

“Yes, dead, with my knife in her chest.” Alistair stared, because for a moment the words did not really sink in. And then they did, and he exchanged a glance with Eideann.

“You…you actually already dealt with her?” he asked the elf, who shot him a brilliant grin and gave a small bow.

“Yes, this morning. We found some people willing to talk, and I infiltrated their base shortly before lunchtime. Jarvia is dead, the Carta is in disarray for the moment, and the work is done. Almost well, though dear Morrigan may have some choice words as to my methods.”

“How?” Alistair asked sharply. He still did not really believe that Zevran had managed it so quickly and without their noticing at all. Surely there would be some sort of trouble as a result?

“I am a Crow, my friend,” Zevran said pointedly. “It is my job to infiltrate and assassinate people, yes? I am very good at my job.” His eyes flickered to Eideann and he added, “most of the time.”

“Thank you, Zevran,” Eideann said softly, in a voice that was genuinely grateful. He just nodded, then motioned to Shale who was watching them.

“Our large stony friend has been waiting all evening and all morning to get underway, and I imagine you will want to be reporting to that Lord or what-not?” he suggested, and Eideann nodded, then crossed to the golem and smiled.

“Shale, did you have a good evening?”

“Riveting,” the golem grumbled. “Just when I thought I could not do any more watching squishy things doing foolish things…There was not even a brawl as a pleasant diversion.”

“I’m sorry for making you wait so long,” Eideann said. “I thought perhaps while we were here, we might be able to find some information about your past before Honnleath. Golems come from Orzammar. There may be something…” Shale just shrugged.

“I do not remember anything but darkness,” the golem said simply. Eideann nodded.

“I imagine that someone must know something. If not here then where?” The golem had no reply, and Alistair considered the exchange a moment before sighing.

“Eideann, have you actually decided who you’re planning to support yet?” he asked her. She just looked to him, eyes sharp now, the political game bright and fierce behind them, and she nodded.

“Yes,” she confirmed. But she would not say more. Whether that meant she had finally settled on Harrowmont, Alistair did not know, but he hoped she would not cause more trouble before the matter was settled. He had a feeling that was, however, exactly what she planned.

The Diamond Quarter steps seemed steeper than day, but they climbed them again, slowly, and Eideann led them back across the terrace between the estates of the noble dwarf families to the Harrowmont estate without another word. Inside, they were greeted by a butler who bowed them in and announced them at the door to Lord Harrowmont’s private chambers. The dwarf was stood much where he had the day before, and he considered them when they entered with narrowed eyes.

“Ah, Warden-Commander,” he said with a false courtesy. Even Alistair could tell it was a false courtesy. Eideann fixed her rainy gaze on the dwarf. “I heard the news. Jarvia is dead. I suppose it was unrealistic to expect a surrender.”

“I do not deal in surrender,” Zevran said simply from beside Alistair, his eyes narrow, his dislike of the man painfully obvious. Probably because he was not ordering the murder of this, that, and the other of Bhelen’s supporters. Well, unless one counted the tournament.

Alistair’s gaze strayed to Eideann’s thigh, which seemed much better this morning. She hardly limped at all, though she was freshly out of bed so perhaps it would become more obvious as the day wore on. Hopefully they would soon be done here, the dwarves secured, and she would have the chance to heal during the journey to Redcliffe.

Something about the fact he could think such a thing so quickly made him nervous. Things _never_ worked out as they planned.

“It is done,” Eideann said simply. Harrowmont sighed, and that was when Alistair knew that it was never going to be as simple as just being done.

“I have no desire to go back on my word,” Harrowmont began in perhaps the most ominous speech Alistair had heard in a long time, “but when Bhelen heard the news about Jarvia, he raised the stakes.” Eideann’s eyes were narrowed again, and she stood still, unmoving, like a block of ice, Shale at her back, an assassin at her side, Grey Warden armor glinting in the lamplight. And she looked very dangerous again.

“Of course he did,” she said quietly, her voice setting off warning bells in Alistair’s head. He did not like that voice. Harrowmont glanced to Alistair, as if he could help, but there was nothing to be done, so the dwarf looked back to Eideann and shook his head.

“He is forcing a vote. By law, that prevents the Assembly from hearing any other pleas until the vote is done,” he said frankly. “I can still win the vote, but I will require your assistance one last time.”

“Be careful what you ask of me,” Eideann said in a quiet voice,” or when the darkspawn next break the lines and threaten Orzammar, I may be conveniently unavailable to assist you.” Harrowmont glared.

“You are a Grey Warden! You have sworn oaths to battle the darkspawn!”

“Oaths you are keeping me from fulfilling right now, Lord Harrowmont. And I am sure the occupants of Dust Town would be more than happy to funnel the horde up into the Diamond Quarter should the situation arise,” she said simply.

“There is nothing I can do until I am King. The treaty binds the King alone,” Harrowmont insisted.

“And what do you expect me to do now you and Bhelen have shut down your own government to decide the outcome?” Eideann demanded, her voice cold. Harrowmont stared her down a moment, then sighed.

“Do you know anything of the Paragon Branka?” he asked suddenly. Alistair felt an uneasy feeling. Branka was the woman who had been missing for years, the woman that red-headed drunk had been lamenting on the steps the day before.

“Always another step,” Eideann said roughly, her usual diplomatic tongue cast aside in favor of brusque impatience. “Get to the point.”

“As a Paragon, she outranks even the Assembly,” Harrowmont explained, putting his desk between himself and Eideann for a bit of false security. Alistair felt a ripple of anger himself at being dragged about on a wild hunt for nonsense while the Blight raged and decimated Ferelden above. “Were she to support me as King, this awful debate would be over.”

“There’s a _very_ simple way this could be over,” Eideann said simply, “and it does _not_ take an Assembly or a Paragon to finish it.” Zevran smiled slightly, a cold, cruel smile, and Alistair realized Eideann had just threatened to assassinate one of the contenders. Which one she meant, he had no idea. A chill settled over his spine and he swallowed, praying she would not be so rash. But then, if there was no other way to end this quickly, if Harrowmont was really about to suggest what he thought the dwarf planned to suggest…Maker, it may be the only way.

Harrowmont shook his head.

“I will not threaten the rule of law by ordering Bhelen murdered so I can take the throne,” he said. Obviously he had missed the unnamed threat in Eideann’s words. She had never said which she planned to remove from the picture. Alistair suddenly really wanted to know who she was planning to throw their weight behind in the end. All of these games to keep the Grey Wardens neutral…he wished she would at least share the plan with him.

“Are you sure Branka would even support you?” she asked the dwarf, who shook his head.

“It’s hard to say,” he admitted. “Branka hated darkspawn with a passion, though. She would certainly be a valuable voice to support your treaty.” Or she would if she were there, in Orzammar. Maker, he was not going to ask them to find a woman who was two years missing in the depths of the Deep Roads, was he?

“You cannot be serious,” Alistair heard his own voice say. “She’s been gone two years!” Harrowmont nodded, his look deadly serious. Wonderful.

“Two years ago,” he confirmed, “she took her entire house into the Deep Roads on a mad quest to uncover ancient secrets. No one’s heard from her since. Were she to return and endorse someone for the throne, the Assembly would be honor-bound to accept her wishes.”

“She is probably dead,” Eideann said flatly. “And this is ridiculous. Politics is one thing, but this is weakness that would never stand if the Deep Roads were still full of darkspawn, and you know it.” Harrowmont sighed, turning his back on them.

“Bringing back her remains would be proof enough,” he said.

“Blighted son of a whore!” Eideann spat, and Alistair jumped, because Eideann never cursed like that and Maker…Eideann _never_ cursed like that. She really was angry. “You want me to wander into the Deep Roads to find a woman who has been missing for two years, likely dead, and somehow discover and return with her bones?! Find a dead dwarf woman yourself and make the claim it’s her! Or stop being a coward and stand in front of that Assembly! Make your case to be king, or submit to Bhelen! Ferelden is poisoned with the taint, and my people are dying in massive numbers above, and soon _yours_ will die in massive numbers down here! What sort of sick and twisted game are you playing at?!”

“The Paragons are living ancestors!” Harrowmont declared. “Branka’s word is law!”

“Find. Her. Yourself.” Eideann shot back angrily, turning and pushing her way through them to the door.

“I have tried.” She froze, shoulders rising and falling, listening but refusing to grace him with another look. Harrowmont’s voice was hesitant, but he forced himself to continue. “My men traced Branka’s disappearance to an ancient crossroads known as Caridin’s Cross,” he said haltingly. “It is many miles below where we normally venture, but I can provide a map to lead you there.”

“Where is the entrance?” Eideann said after a moment, and Alistair did a double take.

“What?! Are you really - ?!” She silenced him with a look, and then turned to fix Harrowmont with the coldest look she could give.

“Where,” she repeated, “is the entrance to the Deep Roads?”

“You can enter through the mines,” he said quietly. “Thank you again, Warden, and may the ancestors guide your steps.”

Eideann looked like she dearly wished to say something, but she turned on her heel instead and stalked out, her face like thunder. Alistair followed, unable to look at the dwarven Lord.

How had Duncan dealt with these fools? The dwarves were meant to be the noble ones who battled the Blight. But this…Maker, what a bloody mess. And Eideann losing her cool was more than enough to worry him. He hurried up a few steps to catch up to her.

“Are we really going to do this?” he asked her, and she sighed, brushing through Harrowmont’s houseguests without paying heed to who was in her way.

“Maker take us, yes we are.”

“The Blight…”

“Orzammar must have a King to fulfill this treaty, and if they have no King then a Paragon will do. Branka apparently has the ability to rally Orzammar like no one else can. If we can find her, we can bring the dwarves, king or no, and they can deal with their own political idiocy.” She glanced to her other side then, to Zevran, whose expression was dark.

“Say the word, _Bella_.”

“Could you do it if I asked?” Eideann asked him quietly, and Alistair shook his head.

“You’re not really thinking about – ?”

“Perhaps, _Bella_ , but not without a lot of planning.”

“How much planning?” Eideann asked him.

“Several weeks. I am an elf, and I stand out here,” he said simply, his Antivan accent thick and mingling with her Highever brogue. “A Prince or a Lord is no Jarvia of the Carta. Several weeks to work out the best way in and out, to find myself the right people to assist, and it would of course depend on the target.” Eideann’s eyes narrowed.

“You know the target. Several weeks then. That’s all you get, Zevran.” He blinked, and Alistair looked around hurriedly, but no one was following them and Eideann did not seem to care that people may be listening in. He shook his head.

“What are you doing?!”

“Making a back-up plan,” Eideann told him sharply. “You and I will go into the Deep Roads, and Shale will come with us. The darkspawn taint cannot touch a golem, and you and I are hardly going to be tainted again. I won’t risk anyone else. A small team can move quickly, and with the Blight up above, the Deep Roads should be emptier than otherwise.” She looked dark and angry. “I left the other treaties with Leliana, and she knows that if we do not come back she is to go to Jader and summon the other Grey Wardens, to get them to Soldier’s Peak where we have arranged to rally with the Dalish, and the Mages and Templars of the Circle. Zevran…” She reached inside her tunic and pulled forth the last treaty, passing it over. “You know what to do. Several weeks to plan. If we do not return, act. Get Orzammar a King and demand they honor this. And then get them to the surface.”

“We’re just going to leave this to everyone else?” Alistair asked weakly, his voice too quiet. Eideann shook her head.

“There are two of us,” she said, “and both of us raw recruits. We’ve been Wardens for no more than a year at most in your case, and half a year at most in mine. If we can rally an army to kill an Archdemon, that is perfect. But at least we know that if we cannot, we turn over what we have already done to the hands of those who already know what to do next.”

“Jader is weeks away.”

“One week from here. And it is a sea-coast. A Warden force could sail to Waking Sea or Highever in two weeks, and it is not far to Soldier’s Peak from there. A month, then…that’s the time it would take. Zevran has several weeks to sort out dwarven politics. If we are not back, the dwarves, the Dalish, the Mages, and the Wardens could unite on the Storm Coast within a month and a half, and rally to fight the Blight.”

“And Ferelden?” he asked softly. She turned her face away.

“Ferelden will rebuild if it must. Such a shock conflict would be dangerous. If Ferelden is to survive, the best scenario is still ending the Civil War and rallying Ferelden troops to fight the Blight as well. But a Warden incursion will split those troops asunder. It may be too late if that happens. It is better to command and control this conflict. And Maker knows I will try. But if we can find this Branka, we can get the dwarves moving, and then turn our attention to Loghain. Either way, I would rather Loghain ruled Ferelden than the darkspawn did. I hate saying that, but it’s the lesser of two evils now.” Alistair had nothing more to say at that. She was right, of course, she always was, thinking things through like lightning, always planning and plotting. She had a contingency for everything, it seemed. He envied that a little.

Eideann looked to Zevran who had pocketed the treaty and given her a severe look. Then he drew forth the winnings from the card games in Tapsters and handed her half of the pouch.

“Do not go into those tunnels unprepared, _Bella_. I would not wish anything to happen to you.” She nodded, and took it with a soft murmur of thanks, the weight pressing into her hand.

“I will pay it back, I promise, Zevran,” she said quietly. He shook his head.

“No, _Bella_ , it is only gold. We cannot take it with us when we die, and it is not hard for one such as I to make more.” The elf bowed gracefully away out of reach. “Spend it wisely and be safe. That is return enough for an investment.”

“Thank you,” Eideann said again. And then she sighed, looking back to Alistair. “We need supplies.”

“What sort?”

“Anything we can carry.”

Zevran stepped away, fading into the crowd, visible because he was an elf but still slinking away in a manner that did not really draw attention to himself, heading for the main exit out of the mountain to regroup with the others and share the plan.

“What about Morrigan?” Alistair asked suddenly, recalling the Witch. She had apparently been about that morning, listening in.

“I will see to her,” Eideann said softly, and her look was troubled. “Did Duncan ever give any idea what the Deep Roads were like?”

“Not really,” Alistair admitted. Shale heaved a great sigh.

“One wonders how it has gotten this far at all,” the golem stated. Alistair sighed. While part of him really did not want to take the golem, he knew Eideann was right, and in the Deep Roads all their other companions risked becoming tainted without warning. At least Angus was going, because he followed Eideann regardless, and he had swallowed enough Darkspawn blood the mabari was almost a Warden himself. Those flowers of Daveth’s had helped with the taint, and since then the dog was almost as valiant a fighter as half the Grey Wardens had been at Ostagar. There was that, at least.

Even so, a party of two Grey Wardens, a golem, and a dog seemed worryingly small for a sojourn into the Deep Roads. There was travelling fast and light and in a small group to keep the attention down, but the Darkspawn could sense them now, as the attack on their camp in the Brecilian Forest had shown, and a golem and a dog were not known for silently moving.

No, this was the best option, it was true. If there was a fight, they would need the support.

“Can you even track underground?” he asked Eideann quietly. The woodlands were one thing. Was it similar at all?

“We shall see,” she said, and that inspired no confidence at all.

Eideann directed him to reconvene with Dulin Forender regarding the maps of Caridin’s Cross, and then vanished to the Shaperate to speak with Morrigan. There was one good thing coming from it, though. For the first time in a long time they would actually get to fight darkspawn, and that was what Wardens were meant to do. He was glad of that opportunity, because it gave him a purpose, and he was glad of those contingency plans too, because he knew, deep down, that in reality they were probably going to need them.

He did not know which worried him more: his eagerness to be moving again, or the fact he was certain that they were going to die.

***

Eideann was nervous, very nervous. The Deep Roads, where Wardens went to die…that was nowhere she wanted to go anytime soon. But she had not lied when she said Branka’s word would change everything in Orzammar, and while she was fairly certain it was a fool’s errand, she was determined to try. Not for Harrowmont. She was going into those Deep Roads for Ferelden.

Ever since Alistair had told her of the fate of Wardens who survived the Joining, she had dreaded this place. She did not want to die buried under the earth in the pits of darkness that housed the denizens of the taint. She wanted her last moments to be of the stars high above her, or the wash of the surf against the stony coastland beaches. She wanted to die as people died, up above beneath the sky, and she wanted to be burned and her ashes scattered, not crushed beneath mountains of stone. She was no dwarf.

She knew also that this fight would be an orchestrated thrust directly into the territory claimed by the darkspawn, and she would need more wits about her now than she had managed so far. She was no military commander, for all Alistair had named her Warden-Commander of Ferelden. She did not know how to lead armies and spearhead a battle. She did such things now entirely off the cuff, making it up as she went along because she did not have the experience to do anything else. She had been lucky so far, and that was it. Now, she needed to be prepared.

Zevran had reappeared, this time bringing Wynne with him, with gear they had left above on the surface: her bow, the Warden crossbow that had come from Soldier’s Peak, a slew of healing potions Wynne had spent the last day and a half throwing together, and their packs. Eideann took hers silently, checking her gear with a solemn look.

Alistair was nervous, she knew. She could feel it coming from him like waves. It made her more nervous. But she had chosen wisely when she picked Shale and Alistair, and Angus too would come with them. If they took anyone else, there was a good chance their friends would pay the price for her choices, and she made enough people pay that price already. She thought of the lake in Crestwood and swallowed, hard.

Alistair’s rose lay in the bottom of her pack, slowly wilting, and she eyed it up with a wave of sadness, wishing that some things were not transitory and would not die. She carefully packed their things in around it, tenderly minding the petals which threatened to spill from the stem into the bottom of the bag.

She spent Zevran’s silver on extra bolts and arrows, a large flask of oil that the dwarves used for fires, and a number of dwarven explosives. She bought a few traps from a man wrangling nugs in the Commons, hoping they might prove useful, and then packed the rest of her bag with lichen-bread and a case of salted nug meat that she was quickly getting sick of eating. Alistair’s pack was much the same with his bedroll tied tightly to the bottom alongside one of the water-skins. He had a bar of flint in his pocket for starting fires as necessary, and had strapped his shield to the back of his pack with a grimace.

Zevran and Wynne watched them prepare with the solemnity of a funeral procession, which was unnerving at best and entirely horrible at worst. Wynne pressed a pouch of additional herbs and bandages into Eideann’s hand with a shake of head.

“Take care of him,” she said, and that was all that Eideann could get out of her. There was no need to ask who the elderly woman meant.

“I will.”

Zevran’s look was dark as he walked with them towards the mine entrance to the Deep Roads. He held out a small bronze pendant with a tiny hourglass set in the center, and Eideann took it, twisting it about to get a good look. Around the outside of the pendant, a series of numbers twisted to show how many rotations had passed, climbing to thirty before it returning to one. The pendant’s hourglass was filled with something that looked suspiciously like lyrium. She tested it, realizing that the substance slipped through very slowly, probably taking a day to slip through. A clock to keep track of the time they spent far beneath the earth. Maker only knew what it had cost Zevran to get it for her. She twisted the edge to the first mark and looped it about her neck. The elf considered it, then sighed, meeting her eyes.

“ _Bella_ be very careful. I will give you just under a month, no more, and then I will make my move.” Eideann nodded and he clasped her arm with a camaraderie that had been born only lately.

“If something happens, you’re free of your oath,” she told him with a slight smile, unable to stay so tense. He shook his head with a soft laugh.

“I hope it does not come to that, Lady Eideann,” he said, using her name for the first time she could remember. “Be safe.”

“If I can,” she said softly, and then broke from of him, turning to Alistair who had a stonier look than Shale in that moment. “Let’s go…” He nodded and they turned towards the mines together.

And almost straight into the red-headed drunked dwarf from before. Oghren. He was clad in roughly-treated armor, like it had not had a good polish in years, and one of the straps was looser than the other for no apparent reason other than the fact the man reeked of alcohol. His eyes were hooded and dark as he considered them. Then he swayed a little and swallowed before standing up taller.

“Stranger!” he said in greeting and Eideann felt the whole world was against her in that moment. “Have you seen a Grey Warden hereabouts?!” He leaned in a little. “I’ve been privy to the rumor that he…or was it she – you understand this was many mugs ago – was searching for Branka on Lord Harrowmont’s own command.” Eideann chanced a glance at Alistair who was staring at the man like he did not know what to do with him. Then Eideann sighed, then fixed the dwarf with a look.

“Oh? And what does the Grey Warden look like?” she asked him, her voice flat. He grinned.

“Stout and muscular, fair of face, but with a strong jaw and a bold nose, surrounded by a great glowing nimbus!” he declared, his voice gravelly beneath his red braided beard. “If she’s a woman, she might be more slight, but her eyes will shine with the light of purity and her large but chaste bosom will heave magnificently.” Alistair snorted a laugh beside her and Eideann crossed her arms. Oghren was squinting at them with one eye like the drink had him off kilter. “I’ve been looking for hours, but I haven’t seen anyone who looks like that. Very frustrating.”

“Sorry,” Eideann said simply, moving to step around him. “I haven’t seen anyone who fits that description.” He stepped to block her, eyes narrowing.

“Hey, hold off here. Wardens and their staff are the only non-dwarves allowed in the city.” Not quite as drunk as he appeared then. He eyed her up a second time, eyes lingering a little too long at her breasts, and then sniffed. “I must admit from the tales I was expecting something more impressive. But I guess standards aren’t what they used to be.” Eideann’s eyes slid to Alistair again and he just shook his head. Ohgren gave a chuckle to himself at some joke lost entirely in translation, then his eyes lit up and nudged Eideann with enough force she had to take a step back. And Maker, he reeked of alcohol. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?!” he said excitedly. Eideann stared at him. He did not wait for her reply, but jumped right into it, pacing back and forth in front of her and wafting the air with his stench. “Name’s Oghren, and if you’ve ever heard of me before, it’s probably all be about how I piss ale and kill little boys who look at me wrong.” He chuckled again and Eideann raised an eyebrow. Drunk as he was, he missed the distaste, or perhaps he really was that bad at interactions. “And that’s mostly true, but the part they never say is how I’m the only one still trying to save our only Paragon.” His eyes were a bloodshot gray, but there was a fire in them then as he stared at her, intense and determined. “And if you’re looking for Branka, I’m the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her.”

 _Maker, give me strength,_ she despaired, turning away a moment with a sigh. He was right though. She had nothing to go on, and this man…he was a veteran of the Deep Roads and would know the paths. He had fought and killed darkspawn, and he was Branka’s husband.

And he stank like a brewery.

“Why haven’t you gone after her yourself?” she asked him, turning to look back. He shrugged.

“Believe me, I have. But where she was going, it’s a lost thaig. No one’s seen it in centuries. I searched as far as I could, but…” He closed his eyes as if musing over the problem. “It would take teams of warriors searching weeks on end to cover enough ground to hope to find it.” Eideann felt the despair hit her hard. She looked back to where Zevran was watching them at the foot of the steps, his arms crossed. She did not have weeks to traipse about following dead ends. Ohgren sniffed. “But that is just what Harrowmont’s men have done,” he informed her, “and they shared what they found with you.” So that was what Harrowmont’s maps were about. Ohgren’s look was sullen. “But they haven’t found Branka herself, and that means whatever they’ve got, it’s not enough if you don’t know what she was looking for. I’m the only one who still cares about her as a person. Everyone else thinks she’s just a symbol they can leave in the Deep Roads where she can’t offend anyone.”

There was one thing to be said for the man, and that was after all the damn politics, his straightforwardness was refreshing. Eideann considered him.

“I heard she was looking for some ancient technology,” she said quietly.

“But you don’t know what, right?” Oghren grinned. “If we pool out knowledge, we stand a chance of finding Branka. Otherwise, good sodding luck.” Eideann grimaced.

“Don’t I have enough armed lunatics following me already?” she said grimly. The dwarf just gave a laugh and nodded.

“Perfect! What’s one more?!” he declared. Eideann relented, and he crossed back towards the town to gather his own gear which sat waiting for him against the cavern wall. He shouldered a battleaxe almost as large as himself and then slung a battered pack that seemed mostly filled with alcohol onto his other shoulder. “Branka was a brilliant girl, but half the time she’d add two and two and get fifty. You want to find her, you need someone who knows how she thinks,” he said. And he was probably right, armed with knowledge she needed and at least the wherewithal to recognize it, and he wasn’t going away. So Eideann sighed. “Branka,” Oghren explained, “was looking for the Anvil of the Void. Might have been the most important invention in Orzammar’s history. The smith Caridin built it, and with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace, while it was protected by the golems forged on the Anvil.” His eyes slipped to Shale who was unmoving, watching him. Eideann looked to Shale too, then narrowed her eyes, wondering. The dwarves had first made golems in the First Blight? How long had the technology been lost? How old _was_ Shale? “As far as anyone knows,” Oghren said simply, “the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there, if she could ever find it. All she knew was that it was past Caridin’s Cross. No one’s seen that thaig for five hundred years.” Alistair was staring at the map that he had retrieved from Dulin Forender, squinting at the markings, and Ohgren pointed to a spot where several of the Deep Roads joined in a wonky looking cross shape. “If we’re going, let’s get moving,” he said pulling back and turning towards the mine entrance like he was suddenly in the lead. “Branka’s not going to sodding find herself.” Eideann sighed and Alistair shoved the map back into his tunic with a wary look in her direction. And then, because there was nothing else for it, they followed him towards the entrance, where a number of Orzammar warriors stood the block the way. The group considered them warily as they approached, their Commander appearing perplexed.

“What’s this?” he asked as Eideann came to a stop before his armed band. “A human?” He looked to his second. “Did we make these tunnels tall enough for humans?” Then he shook his head, regaining a bit of his composure. “I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you past the front lines without a deshyr’s permission.”

How had Oghren heard of their journey but that blasted Harrowmont had failed even to inform the guards posted at the entrance to the Deep Roads? Maker, the Lord was useless.

She did not even need to be annoyed on her own behalf. Oghren was there now, and more than happy to do it for her.

“Open your eyes, man!” he spat, covering them all in his ale-breath. “These Grey Wardens are on a quest to find your Paragon! Do I have to take your stinking head off?!”

That was the sort of diplomacy she had been itching to enact all day, and it was nice to see the effect. The Commander hesitated.

“What he is trying to say,” Eideann said in a calmer tone, “is that we have permission.” It was so much easier when someone else was the enraged one. She could not be angry and diplomatic at the same time. The guard sighed, then looked to her.

“Oghren could have been a deshyr for House Branka. I suppose he’s the next best thing, in both skill and arrogance.” He stepped aside, looking for all the world like he was avoiding conflict, and ushered them through. “You may pass.” Well, since Oghren’s method of accomplishing their goals appeared to be working, Eideann decided that she was more than happy to continue allowing him to speak on their behalf. After all, he was angry, alcohol stench aside, and the only person in Orzammar who had shown any sense as of yet. She would take allies wherever she could find them at that point.

“I’d offer more assistance,” the guard said as Oghren marched through his band, “but my command post is here. All of Orzammar relies on us to hold this line.” Eideann gave him a look, and he wilted a little under her gaze. Holding the gates of Orzammar was nothing to be proud of with the Deep Roads stretching endlessly beyond into the rest of Thedas, havens for the darkspawn and highways for the Archdemon that even now was somewhere in the bowels of the earth. But he was a soldier, just trying to get by, and so she gave him a small nod, murmuring a thank you to him and his band for their work, and then followed Oghren down into the mines.

“Best of luck on your quest, Warden,” the Commander called after her. “Orzammar needs a Paragon now more than ever.” And if she did not agree with anything else that had been said so far, there was that. Orzammar did need a Paragon, or at least the weight of one, and quickly. Or else everything would be lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers from all the Books so far. Thank you for taking the time to read my story! And for those who really like it, don't forget to leave kudos!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann tries to teach Alistair to call Angus; Oghren leads them to Caridin's Cross where they battle darkspawn; Eideann and Alistair share a moment; Alistair realizes how deep his feelings go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence; Sex

The architecture of the Deep Roads was incredible. The halls were massive chambers cut from the raw stone in intricate columns and scrollwork. Sharp angles and fierce, bold designs arched over roads of thick tiles that ran into the distance. Channels of deep-cut stone funneled rivers of glowing lava that emitted a heat that made her strip her cloak off and tie it over her pack for keeping. 

But the Deep Roads were also dangerous. In parts of the roads, there were broken walls or turnoffs that led deep into darker depths and caverns. They were a strange break from the architectural wonder on the roads, and at any point they could prove hiding spaces for darkspawn. Eideann found herself hyperaware as Oghren led them further down the ancient paths. 

Those roads were older than Ferelden itself by thousands of years. Those roads predated the First Blight. How many generations of dwarves had travelled those thoroughfares in days long gone before the darkspawn had claimed those halls?

It brought disquiet to her soul, and a sense of a great many things lost. She felt echoes of ancient footsteps and stories long forgotten, and she remembered the overgrown halls in the Brecilian Forest of the civilizations that existed so long ago even the elven mage from the Soul Gem could not recall the events now long past.

Ohgren was not much of a travel partner. While his knowledge and experience was certainly valuable, he stank of booze and was generally impatient. His saving grace lay in the fact that this expedition of theirs seemed to have brightened his outlook significantly. In fact, it appeared that Oghren was a highly effective so long as he was driving towards a goal and someone was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt of his convictions. Eideann had no option but to do so. After all, their maps would only get them so far. But all his good points did not change the fact that his company was still something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

Shale was uncharacteristically quiet as well. There was really only the sound of heavy stone footsteps to announce the golem’s presence at all. Perhaps the golem had recalled some of the memories lost in the past? Perhaps it was strange being back somewhere that should be familiar. Surely there was something there. When Eideann had walked the Coastlands again around Soldier’s Peak, she had felt that strange disconnect herself. It would be worse in Denerim. It was not wholly unreasonable for an ageless golem to brood was it?

Angus, though, was eager, dancing about their feet and taking an immediate liking to Ohgren, who was roughly the same size as her loyal mabari. When he was not dogging Oghren’s steps and annoying the dwarf, he was following Alistair. The two were fast friends now, it seemed. Angus was plodding alongside the other Grey Warden now quite happily, and Eideann was almost to the point where she was wondering if it was not possible to re-imprint a mabari that still had a master. 

Alistair, to his credit, seemed to like Angus’s company, especially when he thought she was not watching him. He had been as concerned as she at entering the Deep Roads, and a few days had not alleviated those concerns. But it was hard to stay somber and worried when Angus insisted on dancing about his feet. It made Eideann smile a little too to see it. She liked Alistair’s disarming smile.

Well, unless they were in significant danger and then it was a distraction.

For all they walked the haunts of the darkspawn now, there was no sign of the creatures. Somewhere they would be hiding, but for around Orzammar there were no darkspawn she could sense. That did not mean they were not there, of course. The attack in the Brecilian Forest had certainly made her wary of darkspawn ambushes. But for a place that was meant to be the stronghold of the Blight now, it felt vacant. And that scared her. Almost as much as dying deep beneath the earth.

The maps they had were hastily made, showing ancient routes that had shifted with time. In others they remained flawless masterworks of architecture, and Oghren could read those maps. He had studied them and set off simply enough, as if he had walked the paths before, leading them on toward Caridin Cross.

Eideann lost all sense of direction under the earth, which made her nervous. But thanks to Zevran’s gift, she could at least keep track of the days. She did so, twisting the outer ring whenever the hourglass ran out. It was perhaps not wholly accurate. It depended on her noticing when the hourglass ran out and a trek through the Deep Roads was not conducive to a smooth progress for the hourglass either. But it was close enough. Enough to keep track of the time they spent wandering the ancient halls. 

Sometimes they stopped to sleep, but only where it was convenient to do so, in locations Oghren pointed out as ideal hiding places for them to catch a few winks. They only ate while moving. Eideann was fully aware she had set their time constraint herself, but it still felt reasonable. She would stand by that decision as she did by all others. She would not wander the Deep Roads for an eternity. Her battle was the Blight. 

But she still would rather solve this in a more amiable way than letting her time run out and leaving it up to Zevran to do what he did best. She wanted to be back before any of her contingency plans were enacted by her absence. If there was any truth to the idea that Branka may yet be alive, she would find the woman, and the dwarves would owe her for it. _That_ was a debt she would hold. 

Ohgren fell alongside her, and she forced herself to bear the stench of him (did he never stop drinking?!) as he gave her a dark look.

“Being followed, Warden,” he said simply, and Eideann narrowed her eyes, because she would not have guessed. She did not look back, because that would have been an amateurish mistake. But she did turn to consider Ohgren.

“And?”

“A couple, maybe three. A few days now. From Orzammar,” he said quietly, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for a fight. 

“And we didn’t know?”

“Dusters. Good trackers. They’ve been down here before.” 

“Any plans?” There was nowhere to turn off, no defenses in this stretch of the Deep Roads. 

“Don’t tell the boy,” he said. Eideann looked back up towards Alistair. Trying to alert him would be difficult without giving away their only advantage: their pursuers had no idea they were there. But then her eyes fell on Angus who was bouncing about the man’s heels and she smiled slightly.

“We won’t have to.” Oghren gave her a suspicious look, then nodded. 

“Our best cover is the golem,” he said simply, and that seemed strange but also plausible. So Eideann nodded and loosened Duncan’s dagger at her belt with a deceptive motion that made it look only like she were adjusting her pack.

“Then I’m ready.”

“It happened quickly. Ohgren whirled about and charged, battleaxe in his hands before she could blink. Eideann drew her bow and strung an arrow, slower than she would have liked because she was a little out of practice of late, but still fast enough to draw the bowstring back as she turned, Duncan’s dagger held in her bow-hand just in case. And as she did so she gave a sharp, low whistle for Angus, who listened immediately and leaped to her side, teeth bared and snarling, an immediate change from friendly companion to vicious war-dog. The warning was enough for Alistair too. He had first heard that sound in the Korcari Wilds and immediately asked her what it meant. His sword rang from its sheath somewhere behind her and she heard him join them.

Shale went thundering back down the road towards their pursuers, and Alistair joined Eideann. 

The spell that shattered over his shield came from nowhere. Eideann did not even see it. But Alistair did, or may something in his Templar training had given him the ability to be quicker than she in this regard. Either way, his shield saved them both, and the spell erupted across the surface. Eideann quickly followed the trajectory back, and her arrow found the throat of an elven mage further down the great hallway. She fell, and Eideann turned her attention to the other two attackers, these both dwarves.

Ohgren finished one off with some sort of drunking cursing yell, which went right over her head, because she shifted her attention to the other dwarf instead. This one was shifty and quick, and moving faster than Shale. But he was not faster than Angus. Eideann called out a command, loud and clear, and Angus pulled the dwarf down. There were screams as the dog tore at the dwarf, and flailing until the man fell silent. Angus looked up, muzzle covered in blood, and padded across the stone pavers towards her, eyes shining dully with battle. Eideann lowered her bow and met him halfway, setting a hand on his head which calmed him instantly. He pushed into her hand more and she curled her fingers into his warm fur, feeling unsettled.

“Who are they?” she called to Oghren as Alistair joined her, watching Angus warily. 

“Dusters. Carta probably.”

“I thought Zevran and Morrigan took care of them?” Alistair asked. Eideann shook her head.

“Only Jarvia,” she clarified. “He said they went straight for her.” She glanced to Angus again, then up to Ohgren who was kicking at the bodies for any additional clues. “I suppose it is not unreasonable to think the Carta would want revenge for her death. Zevran sows chaos wherever he goes,” she added softly. “But elves?”

“The Carta is bigger than Orzammar, Warden,” Oghren said like she was stupid, then shouldered his bloodied axe and turned back to their journey, pushing past them. Eideann exchanged a glance with Alistair, then hurriedly got out of the way as Shale came past, disinclined to go around them. 

Alistair sighed, looking back to Angus again, then adjusting his back and sheathing his sword and shield. 

“Do you think he would answer if I whistled like that?”

“Are you trying to steal my dog?” she asked, giving him a pointed look. He shook his head quickly.

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean…”

“We can try,” she told him, wetting her lips. “But mabari imprint. He may ignore you entirely. He ignores everyone else.” She looked to Angus, who was licking at his teeth with a large, slobbery tongue, blood still smearing his muzzle. 

So when they finally found a good spot to make camp for their daily rest, Oghren broke out the alcohol he had brought with him and set to drinking himself into an early grave, and Shale meandered two and fro like it was restless. Eideann set about teaching Alistair the most basic of commands. She had trained Angus to respond to them herself, but it remained to be seen if the dog would answer to anyone else who used them. He did not respond when others tried to mimic the calls, or when other mabari and their owners had similar or identical sounds. But if he knew they were commands meant for him, and if he really did get along with Alistair as well as he seemed to…well, anything was possible. There was no harm in trying. She was not sure it would work, but there was still no harm in trying. 

It had been awhile since she’d done any training exercises with Angus, who had been responding to her commands since she reached her majority. She had dedicated years to that training before, but since then Angus had simply followed her, going into a fighting mode whenever the situation arose. Because of this, she was a little rusty in remembering what she needed to do. But eventually she convinced Angus to sit across the hall and then began. 

Alistair needed training too, apparently, because he was not all that good at whistling. Eideann used whistled commands more than words because they were loud and easy for Angus to hear. She taught Alistair a few basic ones: sit, stay, attack, and guard. And he picked them up with some work. In fact, he managed it well enough that by the end of the evening, Angus was at least listening to the sounds, ears pricking when Alistair whistled. He still only responded to Eideann’s whistles, though, so it seemed that it may not be possible after all.

Alistair did not mind. He seemed to enjoy the process.

Eideann did not sleep well after that. She tossed and turned and woke exhausted, unable to find any ease in the Deep Roads. She flipped the hourglass again and changed the day around the outside grimly. Five days down in the depths, and no sign of Paragons. 

As they shared a meal of salted meat and drank some water from their supply, Eideann tried to work out exactly where they were again. But it was hopeless. She was entirely lost, as if the surface did not even exist down here. That must be what it felt like to a dwarf. In any case, it was difficult to think because Oghren was trying to fill all silences with endless chatter now, and because they were eating he had come close to join them, bringing his stench with him.

“You know what would do you some good, Warden Boy?” he asked Alistair as he chewed his way through a strip of dried nug. Alistair gave him a flat look.

“A pair of nose-plugs?” he asked wearily, not entirely jokingly. Oghren grinned but ignored the comment.

“Go out, find a girl!” he chuckled. “It doesn’t matter who, as long as there’s no pants involved.” Alistair raised an eyebrow and paused eating to give Oghren a very strange look.

“And what makes you think I haven’t?” he asked a little quietly. Oghren smirked.

“I can smell purity a mile away. It’s a talent,” the dwarf said simply, rising and brushing off his hands on his trousers before reaching to gather his things.

“That proves to be useful, I’m sure,” Alistair said in return, bending to feed the rest of his food to Angus who was circling his legs expectantly.

“Not that often it turns out,” Oghren admitted, shaking his head. “Be much better if I could smell cheese.” Eideann opened her mouth, but Alistair beat her to commenting.

“You have my deepest condolences,” he said drily, giving Eideann a tired look. Oghren just laughed and began down the road again.

“Yep,” he declared, not to be outdone, “so do you.” Alistair rolled his eyes and then followed him with a heavy sigh.

They travelled a good half a day before things started to change. Before long, Eideann felt the first presence of darkspawn since first coming underground. She paused, and Alistair was doing the same, so it was no mistake. They were there. They went slowly after that, Eideann drawing her bow. She had made sure Alistair had the crossbow just in case, but he had quietly pulled his sword from his sheathe. Oghren noticed and switched to his warrior self, more serious and direct. He hefted his battleaxe as they inched forward. 

The chamber opened up wide, the ceilings vaulted above. Great chandeliers, currently unlit, swung from rusting chains high above them. Statues of the paragons guarded the hall, and Oghren let out a low whistle.

“Caridin’s Cross!” the dwarf muttered a little reverently. It was certainly impressive, branching off into more roads from the great central chamber. “I can’t believe Harrowmont actually tracked this place down.” There were signposts along the roads, carved stone offering directions, but Eideann could not read them. Oghren could though, and he peered at them before leading them carefully on. 

The darkspawn were somewhere up ahead, but nowhere to be seen. Eideann nocked an arrow to be safe and summoned Angus to her side with a low whistle that had the dog ready and on edge. 

“This used to be one of the biggest crossroads of the empire,” Oghren told them as they made their way across the hall. “You could get anywhere from here. Including Ortan Thaig.”

“So do you know where to go from here?” Eideann asked him, and he nodded, motioning to one of the roads ahead. “Great, let’s go.” She did not want to be caught in the middle of Caridin’s Cross. It seemed to her the least defensible position in the Deep Roads, with attacks possible from literally any direction. 

Eideann realized with that thought that she was beginning to hate dwarven ruins as much as Tevinter ones, but they pressed onward.

Across the hall they found the darkspawn, a group of slain genlock. They went warily after that, because none of them knew what could do such a thing down in the depths, and if it would return. Eideann was concerned on the one hand, but on the other she rejoiced that the Deep Roads seemed less than friendly to the darkspawn after all. 

Part of the roads had caved in ahead, so they were forced to cut through into those cave systems that sprung from the roads at odd points. The caves were crawling with deepstalkers and massive spiders. Shale took care of the spiders easily enough, just as the golem had done back in the Brecilian Forest. Eideann wondered if giant spiders did not just really like ruins. The deepstalkers were worse, with sharp mouths that reminded her of leeches, and the fact they travelled in groups and emerged from the earth all around them as if they dug straight through stone. It was entirely possible that the caves that emerged from the Deep Roads were created by the deepstalkers themselves slowly worming their way through the leftover stone like maggots through rotting corpses. The image did nothing to endear them to Eideann. 

The creatures were fast, but not very durable. Angus developed a taste for them and hunted them down with zeal, which kept Eideann mostly clear of the beasts. She only had to slay one with Duncan’s dagger, and she felt its wicked little teeth sink into her hand. 

Oghren said they were poisonous and so they stopped briefly to treat their injuries and bandage themselves up. Because it was on her hand, she stayed still while Alistair tied the bandage on, shaking her head in annoyance. She did not come down there to be eaten by dirt-leeches or whatever the things were. He just laughed at her and said something about how getting injured was becoming her forte. But he had a few nasty bites too, most deflected by his armor, so it was not like she was alone. And let’s see him stand against a Silent Sister with a broadsword. She had been bloody lucky that the woman had not managed to take her own leg off with that blow. 

Eideann wondered if the deepstalkers had been responsible for the genlock’s deaths, but somehow she doubted it. She wondered if there was any infighting among darkspawn, and it worried her that she did not really know. 

Oghren found a few more road markers, and one he pointed out as marking the way to Ortan Thaig. Eideann nodded them on, wary now of what could lie ahead, and also what lay behind. Five days from Orzammar and they were at last entering the domain of the darkspawn. 

The roads opened up into a giant, raw cavern. It was split in the center by a chasm that was filled with brackish water winding through the stone, a giant cut bridge arching over the chasm to provide access to the other side. And the cavern was filled with darkspawn. Eideann felt them stirring and looked to Alistair who was staring into the cavern beyond. 

“Less here means less above,” she said simply, and he nodded. 

“Be careful.”

“Sodding ancestors, be careful?” Oghren spat. “Just turn them inside out, Warden, and be done with it!” And he set off at a headlong run straight towards the first campfire. 

Eideann and Alistair were pulled into the fight then, and Shale came storming after them with a grumble. Angus charged ahead, ripping into the first genlock, even as Eideann aimed her bow and let fly her first arrow into its heart. 

She felt the force of Alistair’s smite rippling through the cave and realized there were emissaries about, so she searched quickly for them and found a few, some gunlocks and some hurlocks. She took on down with a well-placed shot that went through the creature’s eye into its brain. The other went down under the weight of Alistair’s shield, which knocked it clean from its feet and sent it reeling. 

Eideann hurried forward to avoid leaving her back exposed, Duncan’s dagger held in her bow hand so she could kill at close range too. The darkspawn had erected a few barriers, and she realized this appeared to be a permanent sort of spot for them, which was very strange. She did not like it, the presence of the taint and the darkspawn totems that rose as gruesome reminders of the decimated landscapes above. And she realized the reason dwarven architecture made her think of Tevinter architecture was that the entire place seemed to crawl with the Blight and the taint, as the Tower of Ishal had done that fateful night at Ostagar. 

Further in, they found Alphas, the darkspawn that commanded the legions of the Blight. Eideann whistled for Angus, who went charging on ahead again, Shale following him. The golem moved bloody quickly for a thing of stone, and it was a little frightening to see it. Oghren was not far behind, though his smaller legs and heavy axe made it harder for him to keep up.

Eideann’s arrows found their mark over and over, but Alphas were tough, and even an arrow that managed to pierce all the armor was not guaranteed to bring the thing down. Oghren smashed its horned helmet in with his battleaxe and silenced the creature with a roar of his own. 

And then they found the ogre. Once again Alistair was smiting emissaries, desperate to take down the healers before the ogre reached them. Eideann saw the beast, larger than Shale, ram through the golem, knocking it aside. Oghren was flung into a pack of hurlocks who set upon him. Eideann aimed for the eyes.

Her arrows were little good against a giant creature, and she shook her head angrily, tossing aside her bow to the stone and whipping out her blades instead. They whirred like arcs of light in her hands as she twisted and turned and danced. 

She felt the darkspawn dying about her, senses ringing true, and for the first time she felt the shrieks that appeared from nowhere before they attacked. She cut a path through them, giving a cry of effort and calling for Alistair, who was cutting down the last emissary. Shale was up again, crushing genlock beneath stone fists as it had done in the ring. Eideann got out of the way as the golem rampaged by, flinging itself into the pack that surrounded Ohgren.

It was complete chaos. 

And yet, somehow, Alistair was there, facing down the ogre. She had seen him battle a dragon, had watched him fight his way to victory a hundred times. But not this time. The ogre reached down and caught him in its fists and he gave a sharp cry of pain as it squeezed. Eideann was there in an instant, feeling the rising feeling of panic, hacking into its thick, mottled legs and then swinging herself up onto its back and slashing at its neck with all her might. The creature roared, dropped Alistair, and whipped about, throwing Eideann off. She landed with a roll, hitting the ground with such force she felt the shock of it all the way through her, but she rose up again, panting. 

_Alistair!_

Angus tore past her, and Oghren staggered to her side, breath heaving as hers was. And they stared at the ogre together, which gave a loud roar.

And then they were moving. The dwarf was a force of nature. His battleaxe swung about, and Eideann had to leap clear, careening to flank the ogre instead as Oghren faced it head on. He hacked at the creature until it roared, then at last it went down, wounded. Eideann slammed her swords deep into its flesh and the creature screamed. And then Oghren hacked through its head. 

It fell, dead, and Eideann turned for the next enemy, but they were gone. 

Shale stomped over, covered in gore, and made a disgruntled look.

“Darkspawn. They may be worse than pigeons,” the golem muttered. Eideann sheathed her swords hurriedly and dropped to Alistair’s side who was wincing but appeared fine. His armor was a little bent, but that had taken the brunt of the assault. He rose with her help and shook his head. 

“I hate those things.” Relief flooded through her and realized she had been holding her breath until then.

“We never used to see them,” Oghren said with a grim look, crossing to join them. Angus plodded at his side, Eideann’s bow in his jaws, and she took it from him, patting his head. 

“What do you mean?” Alistair asked grimly. “They’re ogres. Surely they’ve been around before. There were some at Ostagar.”

“They don’t appear in the Memories until very recently.” 

“New darkspawn?” Eideann said suspiciously. “I don’t like the sound of that.” She grimaced, considering the felled beast, then sighed. “Well, at least this one is dead. At least they do actually die. It isn’t like they are Archdemons either, leading hordes. They seem a bit mindless really.” 

“Just big and dangerous,” Alistair nodded, but he looked worried too.

They pressed onward through the caverns then, eager to be gone before more darkspawn arrived. Eideann took a final glance back at the water trickling through the stone and sighed.

“We must be near Lake Calenhad,” she said softly, and Alistair gave her a surprised look.

“Do you think?”

“The water? I don’t know, really,” she admitted. “Maybe it’s just a subterranean tributary.” He shrugged, then adjusted his pack on his shoulder.

“It’s possible,” he agreed, but it did not really matter. Not entirely. 

Caridin’s Cross opened back up to them then, large chambers once more that splintered into a number of different roads, like the waystation of an empire. It had been, once, but there was no sign that people lived there, and that was strange. Surely there would be some people who could keep watch over such a place. Crossroads above were hives of activity, where towns or merchant caravans sprung up and people gathered to exchange news. It was hard to imagine a place so empty, void even of buildings and structures, could be like that ever. 

The junctions kept branching off until once again they were on a single road, this one of what appeared to be older stone. Oghren considered the posted signs, then narrowed his eyes and nodded.

“This looks like the right way out,” he said grimly. “Ortan Thaig. It won’t be long now.” 

The Deep Roads grew darker as they carried on away from Caridin’s Cross. The lava that had lit them was no longer present, and instead the walls glowed blue and white. Oghren paid it no mind, but Alistair looked distinctly uncertain of it, and soon she realized why. Giant growths of blue crystals began to appear, blossoming from the walls in structures and weaving through the stone in veins like blood.

“Lyrium?” she asked quietly, and Oghren sniffed.

“Don’t get too close. You’ll addle your brain,” he muttered. 

“Is this how dwarves know their way down here?” Alistair asked and Oghren chuckled.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “Maybe. It sings.” Eideann blinked, looking about. It was sparkling now, a Chantry’s fortune buried in the walls, glimmering and glittering and casting blue light across the Deep Roads.

Oghren pulled them into a small cave network which inspection proved to be clear and settled down.

“We rest before we get to Ortan Thaig,” he said decisively. “No one’s been there in centuries, and I don’t expect it to be clear of trouble. We will want to be well rested.” Eideann nodded and the dwarf wandered off to lay out his bedroll and set about drinking like usual. 

Shale stood near the entrance of the cavern, staring at the lyrium, the crystals in the golem’s stone glowing softly in the blue light. It was only a small chamber, dark aside from the lyrium, which was light enough, and Shale could guard the entrance alone. No darkspawn could sneak up on them, and Eideann could not feel any anyway. 

So she laid out her bedroll, slowly unbuckling her uncomfortable armor until she wore only the Grey Warden tunic, and looked to the hourglass about her neck before slowly taking a seat. It was like starlight, she realized, and that gave her a sense of comfort that she had not felt since heading below the surface. For the first time, she felt safer than she had in weeks, and the world seemed beautiful.

There was a small glistening pool near the back of their small cave, and Angus was staring into it, tail wagging. Alistair refilled their water supplies, and Eideann settled back, her back to the stone wall, and checked her bite wound carefully. It seemed fine, which was good, because injuries were not the sort of thing she wanted in the Deep Roads, and she was sick of being wounded. She would have some good scars to show off by the end of all this, that much was certain, and stories to tell all their friends. 

It was strange to be there, buried beneath the earth, in a small cave that glowed like starlight. She thought back then to everything that had come before. Highever was an old wound now, sore but certain. She let it slip away in the darkness, and let Ostagar slip away too. There, in the Deep Roads, she imagined this was what being a Warden truly meant: taking the fight to the darkspawn without all the mess of politics and elections and curses and abominations. There was no Civil War, Fereldan or dwarven, to contend with there. The noise faded away, into the background, until suddenly, without warning, a sense of peace settled over her. 

Time slipped by, unwatched, and she had no way of really keep track. Shale seemed frozen in stone in the distance, and Ohgren had slowly fallen to snoring softly across the cave, bottles still in his hand. Angus sat somewhere between them, and he was asleep too, kicking in some dream he had. Eideann considered him a moment, then shook her head with a small smile and let her hand slip to the Warden pendant about her neck. 

She did not mind so much, she realized, this life. The costs were there, but the pain was lessened, and away from the pressures there was beauty in purpose. She had the chance, for the first time in a long time, to really ponder what it meant that she was a Warden, and she liked it. She could help people. She could make a difference. Part of her lived for the fight, and while the taint still raced in her veins, she knew that she could stand firm against it, now and into the future. She had passed the Joining for a reason, become a Warden for a reason, and the thought gave her a conviction she had always had but needed to put a name to. 

It did not matter the titles or the goals. Everything felt distant in under lyrium stars. They glistened and hummed, a soft sound. Singing…yes she could see it. 

To come so far, and see something so beautiful after so long…

She looked to Alistair, a dim shape further along the cave wall. The world seemed to have stopped.

He was there, watching her in the darkness with quiet eyes, and she met them. There was power in the song that surrounded them, ancient magic and something more, something clean and raw and pure. They did not speak, simply watched, taking in one another as though they were breathing, and then, at last, she rose.

He had been there through all of it, from Ostagar onward. He had become a permanent fixture in her world, the family she had needed when all else was gone. She remembered the warmth of being in his arms, she remembered the gentle smiles and the soft laughter. She thought of those amber eyes always watching, waiting for a sign of what came next. She thought of the way his voice sounded, his scent, the way his lips tasted when she kissed them.

And she wanted to kiss them again. There. Then. Under the lyrium stars.

She crossed carefully to him, and he looked up as she stood over him, neither of them saying a word. His armor lay on one side of his bedroll with his pack, and his sword was within reach. But he too wore only the Grey Warden tunic, and it made him seem smaller in the dim light. His eyes burned into her, watching, still waiting. The world seemed to shrink then, until it was only the two of them, and everything else faded away.

 _Alistair…_

She gave in. 

She slowly joined him there, sinking down until their mouths met, hot and alive. His arms came about her, strong and safe, a home in the darkness she had never hoped to find, and carefully he pulled back to meet her eyes. His own gaze was soft, filled with caution and desire. She met it.

“Eideann…” Her name was a soft breath, a low sound, a thread to cling to, and their breathing was audible between them. She stared back, feeling too delicate, too vulnerable. His hand crept up to softly brush her hair from her face, gentle as nothing else in the world could be, and he drew a shaking breath. “Oh Maker,” he whispered, trying to find the words. “Everytime I’m around you, I can’t think straight.” She felt a soft smile on her lips, but her heart was pounding in her chest, and she was not breathing. Not anymore. His hand moved to gently press their foreheads together, and he closed his eyes. “Being near you makes me crazy,” he told her softly, “but I can’t imagine being without you. Not ever.” Eideann felt something pricking the corner of her eyes. Tears? She felt warm, too warm. “I don’t know how to say this another way,” he told her, arms holding her close against him. “Stay with me? Please?” She could not breathe, could not think. Only feel whatever that feeling was in that moment, a pressure that threatened to burst from her, a desperate need and longing. He drew back a little, and she forced herself to take a breath, to slow down. This…this would change everything.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice wavering. He caught it and nodded, meeting her eyes, his hands finding hers in the lyrium light. 

“I wanted to wait,” he told her in a murmur, “for the perfect time, the perfect place…but when will it be perfect? If things were, we wouldn’t even have met.” She felt the tears again and he reached up to carefully wipe them away with a gentle smile. “We sort of…stumbled into each other, and despite this being the least perfect time, I still found myself falling for you in between all the fighting and everything else.” Maker, she could not think, could not breathe. But she wanted. And the world was far away. This was all that mattered. _He_ was all that mattered. He dropped his gaze a little, shy, and she realized his hands were shaking too. “You know I've never done anything like this. With anyone,” he murmured. “I want it to be with you…while we have the chance. In case…” Eideann blinked away the tears and bent to catch his mouth in hers, soft lips parting, sharing her answer with every ounce of her being. He kissed back, and she let her mouth trail down the side of his jaw, listening to him exhale as he tipped his head back. 

She did not really know what she was doing.

Her hands broke free of his, sliding slowly up the planes of his chest. He was warm, and sturdy, and she felt like a woman there in his arms, keenly aware of the differences between them. He buried his face in her hair as she kissed his neck, his fingers tracing softly up her spine. 

They neither of them knew what they doing. It was no different than in anything else. 

Her hands found their way under his tunic and she felt his flesh beneath her fingers. He paused a moment, looking up, and he met her eyes, then pulled her into a deeper kiss, taking her breath away. His hands followed her example, mirroring her actions and she felt his sword-callused hands touch her softest skin. 

They were quiet, but the passion was there. Her lips found his again under the lyrium light, and she shifted to carefully loosen his clothes. Her own came next, and she worked her way out of her leggings. His hands were on her again as she drew back to him, touching and exploring, fingers on her back along her spine, across her breasts, down further, lower, and…

She moved herself carefully into his lap, until they were touching, and paused. He sat there, tunic open before her, clothes askew in the darkness, and his eyes burned like fire. 

She met his eyes and moved. 

And then they were Joined in a new way, together as one in a manner that ached with need and passion and unspoken words. Alistair’s arms closed about her, and Eideann wrapped her own arms about him, burying her face against his shoulder as a soft gasp escaped her. Movement was like liquid fire, filling her with warmth. She could feel his whole body against her own and pushed herself further into it, desperate to feel even more, until they could melt into one in the heat of everything. 

And her heart ached, and tears pricked her eyes, and she wanted. Oh she wanted. More than anything ever, she wanted this, _him_. His name escaped her lips in a whisper charged with heat and need.

“Alistair…” 

And then she was lost, stranded under lyrium stars.

***

Eideann was like a queen, basking in the soft glow of the light all about them. The blue glow had flickered on her flesh like it was the light of the Maker itself, glimmering in a way that made her eyes shine like ice and her flesh seem ethereal. Lyrium was magic, at least he thought so now. 

She lay in his arms, Grey Warden tunic loose about her, eyes closed now. And Alistair could feel the passion still stirring within him. 

Maker’s blood, she was the most beautiful, most amazing thing he had ever seen. She never gave up, never surrendered, never stopped. The Warden pendant hanging between her breasts glimmered darkly in the blue light, a reminder of the other bond they shared. But he liked this one much better. The feeling of being beside her, around her, within her. He felt like the whole world was going to bend the knee to them now. 

Such a thing was a gift she had given him. At the end, her murmuring his name, proof she wanted it as much as he. He let his fingertips trace the softness of her flesh, awed at it. How could it be so soft? His fingers traced gentle patterns on her thigh and she turned back to look at him with those eyes as beautiful and as stormy as the sea. He smiled, he could not help it, and her eyes glittered like embers in the darkness.

“You know,” he murmured to her, nuzzling her shoulder and reveling in the feeling of her soft against him, “according to all the sisters at the monastery, I should have been struck by lightning by now.” He felt her smile rather than saw it, and her voice was thick in the dim light.

“Could still happen,” she said with a laugh and he laughed as well.

“Sure, but if you get hit by the lightning _afterwards_ it hardly seems like an effective deterrent,” he said, looking up and meeting her eyes. He sighed. “You do realize the rest of our little party is going to talk, right?” he asked, his eyes sliding to where Shale was still standing pointedly not looking to them. “They do that.” Nothing had stopped the whole lot of them from gossiping yet. Oghren had already started without them, and he had only known them a few days. 

“Why? Are you going to tell them?” she asked him wryly, and he sighed.

“I won’t have to. They’ll just know,” he admitted. “Morrigan will give me ‘that look’, I just know it. You should really kick her ass for me. I’d pay to watch that fight.” Eideann nudged him with a fist and shook her head.

“They’ll just know?” she asked with a smile, then sighed. “First smart comment and I feed them to the darkspawn.” She sat up a little, readjusting her clothes and moving to pull on her leggings. 

He grinned, shaking his head.

“See, this is why I love you.” She blinked, looking back a little, and he drew a breath, aware that the words had just slipped out and eager to move to a different topic. “So…what now? Where do we go from here?” Eideann sighed, tipping her head back to look at the lyrium that speckled the ceiling, and then glanced to him with that fierce fire in her eyes again.

“Now,” she said firmly, “we have a darkspawn horde to defeat.” He laughed and considered her. He should not have been surprised.

“You’re so practical,” he said, and meant it as a compliment. “You make me proud.” She smiled slightly, then rose, and he reached to catch her hand, looking up at her. “Eideann…” All smiles were gone now. “Thank you.” She looked at him with those fiery eyes, some tension gone from her now, and did not need to speak. The acceptance in her eyes said all he needed to know. “No one’s ever…made me feel this way. I wasn’t…sure it could happen in fact.” Her fingers closed on his and she bent down to catch his lips in her own in a tender, soft kiss. Her voice was a whisper so quiet he almost missed it.

“I feel the same way.” He pulled her down into another kiss and then slowly let her go.

“Good to know,” he murmured back. She drew away, and he moved to refasten his clothing, a slight blush on his cheeks as he remembered all the ways he had touched her and she him. It came unbidden, a whisper in the back of his mind, and he closed his eyes, settling into the realization.

_I love her._

Maker, what was he going to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I really wanted to get this scene right. :) Enjoy! ~HigheverRains


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oghren teases Eideann and Alistair about their new relationship; the group encounters Ruck, a tainted scavenger; Shale proves excellent at handling giant spiders; the group finds some clues about Branka; a visitor arrives in Highever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence

“Warden. Get up.” Eideann felt a sharp kick into her side and grunted, turning over. Her hand went to one of her swords and she turned about, but it was only Oghren standing over her. “We have work to do, Warden,” he said in a grumpy voice, and she gave another groan before forcing herself up.

She would have thought she would feel different, and maybe mentally she did. Her mind went first to Alistair, and she chanced a glance to where his bedroll had been, but he was not there, his things already gathered, and she sighed.

“Of course,” she said, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her face, sure it was flattened on one side. She realized she had not dreamt once the past night, and so she had slept right though, and Maker that was wonderful. She felt more rested than she had in days, or maybe weeks.

Her mind danced back to images of Alistair’s hands on her skin, and she felt her cheeks heat slightly. She strapped on her armor and swords and then shouldered her pack. The hourglass about her neck showed it was the fifth day, for now at least, though soon sixth. She took a drink of water and then nodded.

“Alright, let’s go,” Eideann said, and Oghren sniffed before stalking off. 

The Deep Roads lit by lyrium carried on some ways before opening up into deep chambers, and they followed them in silence for some time. Eideann led the way, bow held ready in case she sensed darkspawn. She had to remember they were still around. Angus paced alongside her, docile and easygoing. Shale was at the back, footsteps falling loudly on the stone floor, so it was not as though their presence was particularly discreet. All the same, she did not regret bringing the golem along in lieu of anyone else. 

She was starting to regret Oghren a little though, especially given he had chosen that exact moment to harass Alistair and make a point that he was fully aware of what had happened between them that past night. 

“So…” the dwarf said in a weasling tone, sidling up alongside Alistair with a grin. “With the boss, aye? Took me up on my recommendation.” Eideann felt a rush of embrassment, and Alistair apparently was disbelieving. 

“Pardon?” he asked firmly. 

“You and the boss. Rolling your oats.” 

“I don’t know – ” Admirable that he would try to deny it, but entirely pointless at this stage, because Shale gave a disgusted noise.

“Polishing the footstones.”

“-What you’re-”

“Tapping the midnight still, if you will.” Alistair sighed.

“What are you going on about?”

“Forging the moaning statue?” Oghren suggested. “Bucking the forbidden horse. Donning the velvet hat.” Eideann dared to look back, and she saw Alistair looking red-faced and a little annoyed. For a brief moment he looked back, and their eyes met in an instant before she turned back, shaking her head, feeling her cheeks heat a little.

“Are you just making these up right now?” Alistair asked flatly. Oghren chuckled.

“Nope. Been saving ‘em,” the dwarf grinned, then nudged Alistair. “So, uh, what did you do with her legs?” 

“Whose legs?” Alistair demanded, stepping aside, determined to be obtuse.

“ _Her_ legs.” Oghren sniffed. “That’s the problem with dwarven legs. They’re useless as an accessory.”

“I didn’t do anything with them. I don’t know what – ” 

“Ah, say no more. Just got ‘em outta the way and went about your business. Good on you, son.” Eideann was done listening to it.

“Dwarf, I am right here. If you want to ask what I do with my legs, you ask _me_ , not him,” she shot back. “And the answer is none of your blighted business.” Oghren laughed.

“She’s got fire, boy,” the dwarf said, nudging Alistair again who shook his head. “Good choice.”

“I chose him, dwarf. Now mind your own damn business,” she said, turning away from him. The dwarf gave another laugh, and Eideann shook her head. 

The Deep Roads gate that led into the ancient Ortan Thaig was little more than a hole into another cave system, flanked with paragon statues. 

“By the tits of my ancestors,” Oghren breathed, eyeing up the statues. “Ortan Thaig. I never thought I’d see this place in the flesh.” He drew up alongside Eideann who was peering into the caverns feeling a little unsettled at what might be down there. He glanced to her, his red mustache wriggling as he wrinkled his nose. “I can see Branka all over this place. She always took chips from the walls at regular intervals when she was in a new tunnel – check their composition.” He nodded them onward and so they went, Eideann testing her bowstring with an arrow just in case. Oghren made a musing noise. “If she was still here, though, she’d have sentries out by now.”

Ortan Thaig, to Eideann’s eyes, seemed dead and desolate. There were no signs she could see, though she trusted Oghren’s tracking down here over her own. All the same, a group the size of Branka’s should have left something, even two years back. She grimaced. 

“What if Branka and everyone died?” she asked, because it was still the most likely outcome of all of this. With no sign of the group and a threatening Blight, she had to be realistic now. Oghren just gave her a grunt of annoyance, shoving past her. 

“Well aren’t you a sodding bright spot today?” he grumbled, then stalked further along the path, looking about. “There’d be evidence of a battle. Three hundred or so dwarves don’t just fade away,” he called back to her.

“What can you tell us about these ruins?” Eideann asked, picking her way after him cautiously. She could not sense darkspawn, but there was…something. Something odd. She narrowed her eyes. 

“It was Caridin’s own Thaig,” Oghren said gruffly. He readied his battleaxe. “He even stayed here when he could have had his own house. I guess he didn’t want to move his people to Bownammar.”

“Bownammar?” Eideann asked quietly, feeling a tingle of something…hesitation perhaps? Something nudged her from the darkness in the back of her mind.

“The City of the Dead,” Oghren replied. “Caridin built it to honor the Legion of the Dead. It’s more like a sodding mausoleum.” 

“So there was a city here once?” she asked. It seemed hard to believe. The thing was a mere trail of cut tunnels. Everyone was so closed in and collapsed here, a mere settlement would be all she could fathom. 

“Bownammar is further away from here. But that’s not important, at least I hope it isn’t.” He looked hesitant when he looked back at her. “The City of the Dead is known as the Dead Trenches since the darkspawn conquered it. Much of the Legion was destroyed when the fortress fell.” He looked worried, and very serious. 

Eideann considered it for a moment: Caridin, the Anvil of the Void, Branka, Ortan Thaig, and Orzammar. She licked her lips. 

“And you have no idea where this Anvil is?” she pressed.

“No one does,” he admitted. “But if we find it, we find Branka.” Assuming she had found it, assuming it was real. Though to be fair, the presence of Shale and other golems assumed it was real, or had been once. 

“Fine,” she said quietly. “Let’s get going.” The odd sensation was getting closer. She glanced back to where Alistair stood, and he nodded. He felt it too.

“What is that?” she asked him.

“What’s what?” Eideann ignored Oghren and Alistair sighed.

“Something with the taint, but I don’t know what. Not darkspawn. Just…blighty?” She pursed her lips.

“Blighty. Of course.” 

“Might be crawlers,” Oghren said simply. Maybe. But Eideann hated spiders.

Shale stomped forward.

“Oh goody. More squishy things to crush.” 

The spiders in Ortan Thaig, however, were a far cry from those in the Brecilian Forest. In fact, they proved quite quickly to be the source of the taint. Their bodies were shrunken, hardened, so they looked like raisins or sultanas left in the sun too long. They were fast too, and toxic, perhaps more so than the deepstalkers. 

It was the taint that had made them so, twisted them as it did other creatures on the surface. Blight wolves, bereskaarn, and now corrupted thaigcrawlers. Their venom burned like fire, acidic and raw, and they were twice the size of Angus, who yelped when they ran into the first one. But at least they were not darkspawn themselves. Small mercies. 

The Thaig itself opened up from tunnels into the actual settlement not long after making it through the first handful of spiders. It was still lit predominantly with lyrium. Blue glows shone off the largest paragon statues Eideann had seen yet, standing so tall they seemed to support the cavern ceiling high above. Small stone homes stood in a mishmash of city planning. Two great bridges spanned an underground river that glowed an eerie blue from the lyrium growing along the bed and that smelled of bracken and brine. Salt water? Were they near the Waking Sea then? 

The whole Thaig was ridden with dust and what the spiders had left, and soft whispers cut through the darkness, like ancient spirits lingered there still, restless and waiting. And there were golems, triggered to wake when they drew too close, ancient defenses that had never been set off that proved how long the Thaig really had stood undisturbed. 

The first golem was a surprise, the stone cracking as it moved. Eideann almost did not get clear in time, but somehow she made it, flinging herself far out of range even as Shale hurried to meet it. A golem fight proved something spectacular to watch as they clashed. 

Shale won, of course, lighting crackling from crystals. Therein was the advantage. And that was how they learned golems did not like lightning. After that they were more careful about the other golems. 

Near the center of that side of the river, they found a strange stone altar which made Alistair frown and warn them to steer clear of. 

“Is it magic?” Eideann asked, curious, and he gave her a look.

“Something evil,” was all he would say. He knew no better than she aside from that. So they gave that a wide berth too.

There was a stone circle much like the one in the marketplace before the Orzammar gates that stood before the first bridge, and it was here they encountered something very interesting. If not for the taint being too weak in her senses, Eideann would have thought that the creature bending over the remains of some long-dead creature or dwarf was a darkspawn. She even nocked an arrow and aimed before slowly creeping forward. 

When the figure looked up though, she realized it was a dwarf, hair balding in patches, skin mottled, eyes a sharp and sickly grey that seemed to glow in the darkness. Lines of black spidered under his skin within his veins. Eideann immediately felt repulsed, but Alistair stepped beside her, narrowing his eyes.

“A ghoul?” he asked. She just glanced to him a moment, then shook her head.

“There’s nothing for you here!” the dwarf insisted, backing away from the body and towards a tunnel that branched off into Maker only knew where. “It’s _mine_! I’ve claimed it!”

“Who are you?” Eideann called back, refusing to lower the weapon. If the dwarf could still talk, the tainting was recent. Though, to look at him, she was not sure how recent, or how much longer he would be able to speak at all. He looked to be rotting away. Maker, she felt a bit sick at the thought. 

“What are you doing down here?” Alistair said beside her, and he was not putting away his sword either. 

She could feel darkspawn, and this was not it. Ghouls, people taken and corrupted by the darkspawn, were just as foul with it. But this was different, less, more like the spiders. Eideann felt a bit sick. 

“You’ve come to take my claim!” the dwarf cried back, hissing at us. “You surfacers are all alike: thieving scoundrels! Well, I found it first!” Surfacers? What would a dwarf lost so deep in the Deep Roads know of surfacers? Had he come from Orzammar before? He must have. She narrowed her eyes, taking a step towards him.

Oghren gave a disgusted sigh. “He’s a bloody scavenger, good as sodding gone,” he grumbled. 

“Begone, you! You’ll bring the dark ones back, you will! They’ll crunch your bones!” Darkspawn ate people then? The stories had always claimed it, but she could not really be sure what was real and what was not with all the things she had seen of late. 

“Word has it,” Oghren muttered, “you can only survive down here by eating the darkspawn dead.” Eideann forced the bile from her throat and grimaced. No wonder the dwarf looked tainted. He was tainted, but not as the darkspawn. He was tainted like the spiders were, because he had done as they had: eaten the darkspawn. 

“Darkspawn blood is poison,” Eideann said sharply. “Men have died from drinking it.” Men like Daveth, and how many countless other recruits before him during their Joining Rituals? Alistair looked grim beside her. 

“It burns when it goes down!” the tainted dwarf agreed. Eideann recognized the truth in that. The pain alone had rendered her unconscious. She took another step forward and the scavenger hissed at her again, then turned and fled. 

The hissing was apparently something to do with spiders, because they began to drop then from crevasses high in the rock above. 

“Maker’s blood!” Alistair cursed and turned as Eideann shot the first creature with an arrow, sending it backwards before it landed into the cave wall. Shale stormed up past her, smashing through another that had dropped down beside her, and it spat and hissed until it was thoroughly squished into the ground. Oghren took the legs out from under another, and Eideann finished that off with an arrow between the eyes that lined the top of its head. 

When they were certain the creatures were all dead, Eideann slid her arrow back into her quiver and then went to pull the others free.

“Thanks, Shale,” she muttered, her mouth twisting in disgust as her arrow came free of the spider’s head, covered in slime and green gore. The golem just made an odd noise, like it were thinking, and Eideann looked back to see it considering the massive paragon statues that stretched to the ceiling. “Are you alright?”

“This place is…familiar,” the golem said in a low voice, pondering perhaps. Eideann blinked.

“Do you remember something?”

“Perhaps. I…am not sure. A place, a cavern like this one,” the golem looked to her with eyes of light and then shook its head. “I do not recall.”

“Perhaps something else will jog your memory,” Eideann suggested, intrigued, but her attention was needed elsewhere. “Let’s go after that dwarf. He may have news of Branka if he’s been looting the place.” So they followed the way he had escaped, into the deep tunnels, which were not lit by lyrium but oddly by a fire that flickered and cast dark shadows across the wall as they reached the tunnel’s end. It was a chamber, caved in at one point to block whatever direction it used to have gone. Odd dwarven furniture lay about beside a pile of random collected items, as if someone had made the place a home from whatever had been gathered together.

There, by the fire that was glowing orange atop a platform that had at one time been the foundation for a house, was the scavenger, who glared at them as they took the steps up to gather near his flames. 

In the light she could get a better look at him, and Eideann realized his limbs were twisted and crippled. He was clad in cheap armor, like she had seen some of the lower castes wearing, and she wondered who he had been. He wilted away from them as they approached, panic in his eyes.

“Go away!” he spat. “This is mine! Only I gets to plunder its riches!” Eideann looked about at the collection of furniture and dwarven artifacts looted from corpses and long-sealed homes and Maker only knew where else. There were the remains of other campfires too, older campfires, ashes long cold. She narrowed her eyes.

“Is this Branka’s campsite?” she asked aloud. The scavenger shook his head violently. 

“I’m the one who found it!” he demanded. “Now it’s mine!” Eideann glanced back to him, then drew a breath to settle herself.

“I’m not here to steal anything,” she told him. “I promise.” She kept her voice quiet and calm, watching distress one his face. He peered at her a moment with his corrupted eyes and then, slowly, his face split into a crooked smile.

“Pretty lady,” he keened softly. “So the pretty lady won’t take anything from Ruck?” Eideann shook her head.

“I just want to talk. I won’t take anything, Ruck,” she said again, gentler. 

“Oh,” the scavenger, Ruck, sighed. “Ruck not mind that. Maybe.” Eideann wet her lips, crouching before the flames so they were at eye level.

“I have a few questions for you, Ruck,” she said, tightening her grip on Duncan’s dagger alongside her bow in her hand, just in case. 

“I will answer your questions, pretty lady,” the dwarf muttered, inching forward a little. “Anything you wish.” The taint was literally eating him from the inside out, but he was definitely alive, and not really a ghoul. How long had he been there then? Months? Years? 

“Did you find anything unusual at this camp?” she asked him, and he shifted, dragging one foot along the ground as he avoided her eyes a moment. Then at last he looked back to her.

“Buts of things, but only bits,” he said. “The crawlers take everything. Things of steel. Things of paper and words.”

“Paper and words,” Eideann heard Oghren’s voice gruff behind her. “Sounds like notes.” Eideann nodded. Ruck’s eyes went to Oghren a moment, then back to her. 

“They bring things to the great nest,” he said in a hoarse whisper. Eideann decided then and there she _really_ did not like the sound of a great nest of those giant spider things. 

“When did you arrive her?” she pressed, and Ruck shuffled again.

“Too long ago. Five years? Six? Ruck no longer remembers the smells and sights of the city.” So he _was_ from Orzammar originally, as she suspected.

“Do you want to return?” she asked him. Did he intend to carry the taint back through the mine entrance? If so, she would need to do something to stop him now. That was the sort of thing that could not be allowed to happen.

“Ruck cannot. Back at the city, Ruck would be arrested and thrown into the mines,” the dwarf told her, eyes wide, watching her through his balding hair where it still fell across his face.

“Oh, he’s a criminal,” Oghren muttered, and she heard the sound of him pacing behind her. “Too sodding scared to join the Legion.”

“You are free here,” Eideann said softly, “but at what price?” For a moment, Ruck almost seemed lucid. He gave a slight smile, bitter, and shook his head.

“Once you takes in the darkness, you not miss the light so much,” he said softly, eyes shining strangely in the firelight. It made a chill run down Eideann’s spine, as if those were words he meant specifically for her. “You know, do you not? Ruck sees, yes. He sees the darkness inside you.” Eideann stood up from her crouch, shaking her head.

“I am a Grey Warden,” she said. “It is not the same.” But how was it not? She had drank the blood mixed with lyrium. He too had drank the blood there amidst the thick lyrium veins. It was not too different. The comparison scared her. 

But she was not like him. The taint had poisoned him. Maybe someday she might end up as mad as he, but not now, and not soon, and she would rather die before she let that happen.

“Grey like the stone,” Ruck said softly, watching her. “Guardian against the darkness. Beautiful like waterfalls under the lichen.” Eideann felt a creeping sensation of darkness over her and drew a breath, forcing those feelings away. 

“I should go,” she told him, turning away, and Ruck watched her, saying nothing.

“Enjoy your tainted mud,” Oghren said flatly as Eideann pushed by him. “I’d put him out of his misery.” Eideann shook her head, heading back down the tunnel. He was not a ghoul, and no danger to anyone but himself. He would not go back to Orzammar, and he was scared of everything else. And frankly, she never wanted to look at him again. The taint would kill him eventually. Ruck had made his choice.

_Beautiful like waterfalls under the lichen._ Those words would haunt her until the day she died.

“We will leave him for now,” she said firmly, trying to push him from their mind. Branka was their target, not Ruck. 

Eideann emerged from the tunnel and glanced about, seeing the crisscrossing of spider-webs vanishing further down tunnels on the other side of the river. Maker, she really did _not_ want to go into a full nest of giant spiders. She knew how many spider hatchlings came from an egg sac, and those made her skittish enough without the added deterrent of being their main food source. But Ruck had said Branka’s notes were further in the Thaig, and that meant crossing the river.

So they did. 

Ortan Thaig was not just overrun, it was facing an infestation the likes of which could rival the darkspawn. The whole thing was an even larger cavern coated in sticky webs and crawling with creatures that lay in wait in their webs. As they drew close, the spiders began to retreat back into holes, fleeing from them, and that made her very nervous.

“Why are they running?” she asked, angry at the waver in her voice.

“All nests need a queen,” Oghren muttered, and he sounded equally as wary. And if something could make their ale-reeking dwarf wary, Eideann was well and properly in over her head.

“I hate spiders,” she muttered, and Alistair grinned at her. 

“Really? Of all the things in the world, you’re afraid of spiders?” he teased. She shot him a glare.

“Alistair, their fangs are as big as my forearm!” she said back.

“We used to raise them, before the darkspawn, to eat bats. They grew bigger after they started to eat darkspawn. A cavern like this would probably have a lot of bats,” Oghren said, and Eideann stared at him. He stared back then shrugged. “What?”

“You’re not helping,” she muttered. “How can we possibly get in there? This is a deathtrap.” Shale came forward on thick stone legs, crystals glowing. 

“They do not seem to like my crystals,” the golem said in a jovial tone. “Perhaps I might try?” Eideann thought back to the lightning the wilds, the way it had arced through, and then smiled slightly.

“Alright, Shale. And if we get set upon, at least in this small space they can’t surround us in sheer numbers.” 

“Indeed.” Shale reached up and the crystals flickered, glowing brighter and brighter. And then without warning the lightning shot forth, hitting the first spiders and sending them squealing. A few it killed on impact, others not long after, and the web, slimy and thick, served to conduct it further. Spiders started to drop from the webs, legs curling up into their abdomens as they hissed and died. 

“You’re a genius, Shale,” Eideann said, shaking her head. The golem made a thoughtful noise.

“Just a vastly superior construct,” it said in reply, and Eideann allowed the arrogance, because the golem had just managed to clear out a lot of spiders.

There were a few left, but those they could handle. Shale led the way, zapping a few when possible, crushing them when they were close enough. Where the webs were too thick or egg sacs hung from pillars covered in cobwebs, Alistair took to smiting them apart or down, smashing them as effectively as when Shale tried. Oghren watched the rear, battleaxe ready, and finished off any that came scuttling back down the tunnels their way. 

Somehow they made it to the center of the cavern, where the pillar was so covered in webs it was hard to tell if it even _was_ a true pillar and not just a cobweb tower. And there they found the spider queen, large and tainted and waiting to strike.

Her abdomen was a splash of bright white color on black, and not shriveled or hard like the other corrupted spiders. It was swollen like the ones in the Brecilian Forest, and as they entered her space, the queen dropped and scuttled towards them, fangs beared.

Shale’s lightning was amazing. It was like the golem was a mage or something, and that was an interesting enough concept in itself to consider. But the queen hissed and reeled back, wounded, and Oghren charged in to hack at her legs.

“Bring her down!” he called, and Alistair and Angus hurried forward to join him. Eideann fired her arrows.

The creature did not die easily. It twitched for a good long while after Oghren had hacked off enough of its legs to bring it careening to the earth and then sliced it open. But finally it was dead, green gore pooling about its corpse, and Shale squished its head for good measure, just to be safe of course. Eideann felt sick, but there were no more spiders left after that, only rolled corpses amidst the trails of cobwebs. Eideann grimaced.

Near the pillar was a collection of objects, carried there from the other side of the thaig. It was only lightweight things there, supplies from Branka’s camp woven into webs and a few dwarven bodies that looked fresh enough to have been Branka’s house. Oghren confirmed it grimly while Alistair and Eideann picked through the objects, pulling them from the cobwebs.

“Here.” Alistair turned, a book in his hand, and Eideann looked back, dropping whatever it was she had hold of under all the cobwebs and muck. 

“Branka’s journal!” Oghren declared with a note of premature victory. Frankly, Eideann would rather have found Branka. But there was nothing else for it. Alistair cracked open the pages, hearing the spine creak, and flipped through it until the last entry.

“We have found evidence that the Anvil of the Void was not built in Ortan Thaig,” he read aloud, and Eideann felt her heart sink. Oghren came to join them, and after a moment so did Shale, though the golem worked to kick spiderwebs from its limbs with a disgusted noise. “We will go south, to the Dead Trenches. The Anvil is somewhere beyond.” Eideann felt her heart sink, and she glanced a look to Oghren but he was grinning like a fool, nodding for Alistair to continue. The Templar did meet her eyes though, his look solemn, and she knew he was as concerned about that new destination as she was. “My soldier’s tell me I am mad, that the Dead Trenches are crawling with darkspawn, that we will surely die before we find the Anvil…if we find it.” Well if the obsessed madwoman even admitted to the near certain death, there really was no hope. Perhaps the book would be enough proof for the Assembly that Branka was dead? “I leave this here in case they’re right. I fi die in the Trenches, perhaps someone can yet walk past my corpse and retrieve the Anvil. For if it remains lost, so do we all. If I have not returned and Oghren yet lives, tell him…No, what I have to say should be for his ears alone.” Eideann dropped her head, closing her eyes and forcing herself to think through their options. Oghren did not let her.

“Branka was thinking about me!” he grinned. “Looks like the Dead Trenches are our next stop then.” Even if the Assembly would accept the journal (and there was no guarantee), Oghren definitely would not. “They say,” he said with an inappropriate amount of excitement, “that the darkspawn nest there, whole _herds_ of them, but if that’s where Branka went then that’s where I’m going.” Eideann glanced up towards the last tunnel, and beyond she could see the glow of lava, another Deep Roads exit. And then she drew a deep breath.

“We camp first,” she said, “somewhere that is not here.” She felt a little sick, and Alistair too looked ill at the thought. The Dead Trenches, the darkspawn breeding ground. Maker’s blood, they were all going to die.

Eideann led them quickly from the great nest and out into the relatively clear Deep Roads. There was some rubble, and another of the chandeliers once filled with thick, flammable oils, now only hung from two of its four chains, but there were no creatures, and she could sense no darkspawn, so they found a safe place and once again set up camp.

Eideann sat staring back into the ancient stone roads and tried to picture it as her grave. Nor or later, what did it matter? Even if they could escape the Dead Trenches this time, there was no guarantee they would live through the Blight, and on the surface the usurper Loghain wanted their heads. She curled up, knees to her chest, and drew the Warden pendant out, lacing it between her fingers.

Alistair sat beside her, expression somber, and for a moment neither of them speak. Then he bent to pull forth food and finally coaxed her to eat. And they shared a bottle of Oghren’s piss-poor ale, both feeling it burn as it went down.

Whatever tradition there was about Grey Whiskey or Ritewine, they were right. Nothing burned like the first cup. 

Alistair fell asleep beside her, bedroll laid out beside hers, and on her other side Angus was warm and still, and she could feel his heartbeat through his fur. But Eideann did not sleep. She could not. She watched Zevran’s hourglass and when it emptied she twisted it again and changed the day. A week now. How far to Bownammar and how long to get back? Her mind wandered and she sat, listening to the sounds of the Thaigs, scared of her own dreams, afraid she would never again see the sky. It was a horrible way to be.

_I do not want to die here, not now and not in the future,_ she thought again. _I want to die under the sky._ If she was living on borrowed time, if her Joining was a death sentence, she would live with that. With thirty years to live, she could still do many things yet. Her own father had been about thirty years her senior, and her mother not far off. She could handle such a death. But she wanted more than anything to die under the sky. And that was the thought that gave her strength.

_I refuse to die here._ She would not die in the Deep Roads. Not then, and not ever. She would go to the Deep Trenches and emerge again, and the darkspawn could take the blighted Calling. 

 

***

The port at Highever was as rainy as he remembered it, though it had been many years since he had last visited home. The Chantry still stood on the hill, bells ringing mournfully into the sea air, and the fog hung about the houses, misty and cool amidst the wooden shacks that lined the waterfront near the docks. Further up the hill, the small homes built of stone and better timbers had windows lit with candlelight, despite the early hour, and the entire city seemed subdued.

He heard the accents of home in the air, but all the speakers were soft, and something was wrong, though he did not quite know what it was yet. He wandered up the pier from where the ship had made berth, his legs unused to the steady land now, listening to the muted slosh of the waves against the wooden docks. At the top of the small cobble street, he saw the sign that swung in the inn doorway beckoning him. 

The Seawolf was an old inn, far older than that name. It was renamed such after the Teyrna Cousland, who had been quite spontaneous in her youth. What she thought of it, he did not know, but sailors on the docks liked to crudely joke they were spending the night inside the Teyrna whenever they made port. The Couslands let that sort of crude talk stand, presumably because the respect for their family was actually incredibly great. Usually Highever was vibrant despite the weather, bustling with people who were proud to be Coastlanders. He himself usually felt that buzz. 

But today, now, there were no jokes, no laughter. The sailors were solemn and ill-at-ease. Some of the beacon lights were unlit, and that made making port hard with the mists. And the people went about in silence as much as possible, heads down and eyes averted. 

Yes, something was terribly wrong in Highever.

He stopped before the Seawolf to consider the door, wishing he could stay with family, but there was none. His family was long gone now, and so many years serving as a soldier had kept him a too long away to keep in touch with old friends. None recognized him there now, and even the unfaltering Highever would change with time. 

It really had been so long.

He reached for the handle and pushed the heavy wooden door inward, stepping out of the misting rain and into the dark-wooded common room of the Seawolf. A barmaid caught sight of him and motioned to him to wait, so he stood near the door while she finished with a customer, staring about. The Highever laurels still hung over the fireplace, a large thing of hulking stone that was filled with timber and roaring away. People were there, but not making a riotous noise as he expected. And there were soldiers there, clad in armor that was not of Highever livery. Riordan considered them, small eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“Can I help you?” the barmaid asked, and he turned his gaze on her.

“I was hoping to rent a room for the evening,” he told her in his soft timbre, and she smiled slightly.

“I’ll get everything sorted. It’s fifty silver for a night,” she told him in her Highever brogue which washed over him and made him ache for all those years lost while he was away. He nodded, fishing some money from his pocket, and pressing the silver into her hand, and then she reached over the bar and drew a key forward. “Right this way, ser.” 

The girl led him towards some steps to the second floor, and he followed, glancing one last time over the common room. The soldiers were watching him now, and they did not look friendly.

Ever since Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Gwaren had closed the border, things had been awkward. With his roots in Highever, he had been able to get through where the other Wardens could not, to make it across the border somehow and see what was happening. He had not heard any reply from Duncan, and their last correspondence some months back, almost half a year now, had spoken of the impending battle of Ostagar. 

After that, nothing. He had feared the worst, and he was not alone in thinking so. Warden-Commander Fontaine and Warden-Constable Blackwall had been as suspicious as he. With Empress Celene lining her Chevaliers up for a true Blight along the border, the Warden-Constable himself had sent word from Val Chevin that he needed to cross the border and find out what he could about the events. 

Word whispered by sailors said that King Cailin had fallen in battle, and that made sense since it was Teyrn Loghain who had closed the border. But there were no signs of the Ferelden Grey Wardens either, and that worried him greatly. 

The girl left him at a small chamber with a pitcher and bowl of clean water, and a small cot of stretched leather and straw and a clean knitted blanket. He set his back down and sighed.

Any minute now.

He did not need to wait even that long. There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and when he turned he already knew who it would be. The soldiers stood at his door, their leader at the fore, a scowl on his face.

“New around here, are you?”

“I’ve been away a long time,” he told them quietly, “but Highever will always be my home.” 

“That so?” They did not have the Highever brogue, but there was something of the Coastlands in their voice…perhaps further east? He did not really know what to think of that.

“The Teyrn wants to see you,” the soldier captain said darkly, and Riordan sighed, but nodded. If there was something against Grey Wardens, they did not know he was one, not yet. He had been careful to wear normal clothing, not Warden garb, just in case. Surely Teyrn Cousland would prove a reasonable man. He had always seemed so before. 

But these men…

He had no choice. When summoned, he must go. The man was a Teyrn after all. So he left his bag behind and followed the soldiers down the steps and out the door. The barmaid had a concerned look on her face and watched him as he was led out. 

The streets were cold but that was simply home, and it was late winter now. If it was not misty it would snow, so he thanked the Maker for mist alone because he had no thick cloak to wear. 

Highever Castle was strong and sturdy, built to withstand the ages, but parts of it had suffered damage from the Orlesian War and apparently since. The stones looked charred, and the gate appeared freshly replaced, the wood still new enough that it had not dulled with age as the old had. He had spent enough of his youth in the upper market before the castle gates, sneaking food from old Nellie’s cart to have a fair sense of the place. His warrior’s instinct told him the rest.

He was led through the gates and was not surprised, but still wary, to see more of the strange guards. None of them wore the blue and silver of Highever, and something was wrong. He doubted the Teyrn had changed the house colors after so many centuries of bearing the insignia. 

The great doors opened, and Riordan was led across thick carpets towards a dais at the far end of the Great Hall where a fire roared in a massive hearth carved with the mabari of Ferelden. A man stood there, hair grey and short, his back to them as he pondered the flames, clad in blue and green silk. Riordan was led to the end of the hall, and there he stood, waiting, until at last the guard captain stepped forward.

“Your Lordship, we found this one in the Seawolf. Just arrived.” The Teyrn waved them out, and Riordan stood, waiting, arms crossed.

“What brings you to Highever?” the man asked, and his was not the Highever brogue either. Instead, it smacked of the eastern Coastlands or even of Denerim, and immediately set Riordan’s teeth on edge.

“I am merely a citizen of Highever, finally returning home.”

“Is that so?” The Teyrn turned and paced across the carpets, shaking his head. “I have a man who could swear he brought you here from Jader, and that you are a Grey Warden.” Riordan stood still, silent, and the Teyrn faced him then. It was not Bryce Cousland. He knew that face from the years of seeing him ride into the hall.

“Where is Teyrn Cousland?” Riordan asked softly.

“Dead, not that it is your business.”

“And his children?”

“Maker willing also dead. I am the Teryn of Highever now, and you are the Senior Warden Riordan of Jader.” The man’s eyes were like chips of ice, cold and cruel and pinpricks against a bloodless face. “Grey Wardens are traitors to the crown.”

“Where is the Warden-Commander? Where is Duncan?” Riordan said sharply, grimacing. There was the sound of doors opening at the sides of the hall, and guards appeared, armed this time, drawing swords against him.

“Senior Warden Riordan of Jader, I hereby arrest you under the jurisdiction of King Loghain Mac Tir of Ferelden for espionage and the crime of treason.”

“You cannot charge me for treason! I am a Grey Warden! We are politically neutral!”

“Seize him!” Riordan spun about, unarmed, only able to resist a moment before they caught him and forced him down to his knees.

“What are you doing?!” Riordan called as his hands were gripped tight and swords aimed at his heart and neck. “Don’t you know there is a Blight!” The man smiled, a cruel and cold smile devoid of mirth and kindness, and shook his head.

“Silence him,” he said, and then stepped off the dais and headed for the side door. Riordan struggled, trying to rise, and then something heavy hit his head, knocking him aside. His head hit the carpet, hard, and he realized it was stone beneath only a moment before his vision swam, he saw stars, and then his vision went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> About Highever:  
> The Seawolf is my own invention. We get very little description of Highever, so I made my own. The inn name seemed appropriate for sailors in a major port town.
> 
> About Giant Spiders:   
> The thing about dwarves keeping spiders to eat bats...that is lore. So, yes, dwarves apparently raised giant creepy spiders that did start eating darkspawn and grew out of control after the Blights began. Good job, dwarves. And apparently they do have some weakness to lightning, from what I could find out, or at least the biggest ones do and I don't know why it would be different for smaller ones.
> 
> About Warden-Constable Blackwall:   
> A bit of lore for people who care. Sometime prior to the Fifth Blight in 9:30, the title of Warden-Constable of Val Chevin was passed from Alisse Fontaine to Gordon Blackwall when Fontaine was promoted to Warden-Commander of Orlais. Blackwall remained in Val Chevin until 9:36. While there, he specifically controlled the northern Orlesian Wardens, which I imagine would include those in Jader as this is a city along the coastline near Orzammar. Since Riordan is the Senior Warden of Jader, chain of command dictates he reports directly to the Warden-Constable of northern Orlais, which would be Blackwall. So...that happened, and probably is about as lore-friendly as we can get with this. Plus, Duncan apparently knew Blackwall (Alistair says so in Inquisition), so it makes sense Riordan would know him too. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann meets Kardol's Legion of the Dead; Eideann and Alistair finally see their enemy in the flesh; Eideann and the Legion of the Dead retake the bridge of Bownammar; Oghren finally finds signs of his missing house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence

It was a week to Bownammar. Eideann was watching that hourglass of hers very closely. Alistair wondered what would happen if their time ran out before they got back. Zevran had been deadly serious, but he was about plotting an assassination, and Eideann still had not told him who was the target of that plot. 

For all the distance they were covering, it seemed odd that these portions of the Deep Roads were only those left beneath Ferelden, and that once the dwarven empire had covered the entire continent. The amount of travel time it took to run the Deep Roads, even in this current state of disrepair, was significantly less than trekking the same terrain on the surface. It had taken them almost a month from the Brecilian Forest to cross to Gherlen’s Pass and the Gates of Orzammar, but Eideann had said she was fairly certain Ortan Thaig was near Waking Sea, over something as silly as smelling the salty brinewater that had run right through the middle. There certainly where a lot of dwarven ruins along the Coastlands, but did that mean Ortan Thaig was one of them? He had no idea. 

Even worse was that Eideann had dug a stick of charcoal from her bag and a tattered roll of parchment and was sketching in maps for herself as they went along, as if it would somehow help. Perhaps she was being optimistic and decided that such information would eventually end up in the hands of others, but in all honesty he felt it a waste of time. Until she explained what she was doing, which made it actually far worse. She was not recording the roads for no reason. She was plotting potential paths. She had fixed him with a flat look when he asked, and then calmly told him in a voice that made his blood run cold: “The Blight began in the Korcari Wilds, and now we are headed south. These are paths the horde may very well take as they advance. We need to know them.” 

Maker, sometimes he hated when she was so practical. It made her so…cold.

But no, she was not cold. He remembered the warmth of her smile, the soft tenderness in her laughter, the heat of her mouth and body, the fire in her eyes. She was not cold. Not really. To say so was very unfair. 

It did not make him feel better, however, that she was marking potential battlefronts when there were five of them. That included Angus, who was probably as much Grey Warden as Alistair was. 

The dog was trotting alongside him now as they picked up the pace. They did not stop to rest as long, determined to see this lead done in time. Eideann was worried. He could see it in her eyes whenever they stopped. 

Oghren, that stench-ridden alcoholic that had proclaimed himself their guide despite not knowing anything about the actual paths, was decidedly more upbeat. Alistair decided that a reunion with his wife after two long years was the reason, and an acute myopia to the fact that she had deliberately left him behind when she took literally everyone else. There was some reason for that, he knew, and Oghren’s continual company was starting to make it clear. 

He did not really know what to make of the Deep Roads. There were stories that Maric had been there once with Duncan, and that made him feel…strange. He knew Duncan had led expeditions down into those tunnels before, but never so deep and never so far from Orzammar. He felt wholly unprepared to be there, and it did not make it any better than there were no other Grey Wardens waiting above should something go wrong. 

But there was also a sense of resolute belonging in those tunnels. This was the primary battle, the frontlines of the darkspawn wars to which he had sworn his life. The Deep Roads were as much the territory of the Grey Wardens as the dwarves now, if not more so, and he did not feel scared.

But he did miss fresh air, especially with Oghren about. 

“Someone’s been here,” Oghren suddenly said, pulling them all up short, and Eideann, favoring her bow while they were absent Leliana and Zevran as ranged fighters, paused beside him.

“Darkspawn?” she asked. The redheaded dwarf shook his head and looked back to them. He was only slightly taller than Angus, but that battleaxe on his back shone cruelly in the light of the lava streams, speckled with blood he had not cleaned off from the last group of darkspawn they had encountered.

The creatures were more prevalent now, which went along nicely with Eideann’s theory and rather formidable sense of direction. Every so often they sensed a group, and they were growing too. But they said the Dead Trenches was where the darkspawn bred their horde, and so it was to be expected. Mostly this was just an awful plan, and if Eideann was right about the direction, they were headed for trouble. They may die long before they reached the absent Archdemon. Then they wouldn’t need the army at all. They’d be too dead to care. 

Eideann’s sense of direction was all well and good. He only trusted it because she had proven her tracking skills before. But down here he did not know and was not sure, and oftentimes neither was she. 

“Not those blighters,” Oghren said simply. “Dwarves.” 

“There’s only one group that comes so far in the Deep Roads,” Alistair said, brightening a little. “Legion.” The Legion of the Dead were the dwarves that held a funeral before they marched into the Deep Roads and took the fight directly to the darkspawn. 

“Bownammar was built for them,” Oghren added, shrugging. “Might be scavengers, but I think probably not. They’d leave more signs.” 

“What about Branka?” Eideann asked and the dwarf shook his head.

“I don’t know, Warden. She came this way. That’s all I have.” So they pressed on, keeping an eye out. 

Bownammar rose out of the gloom like something from a dream. Great gates rose high above them, larger than any doors Alistair had ever seen. Maker, how did they even get them open and shut again? Oghren paused before them, tilting his head back, and gave a whistle.

“By the tits of my ancestors,” he breathed in awe. Alistair nodded, though cursing on his ancestor’s tits felt both irreverent and slightly treasonous. 

“This looks…very familiar,” Shale said quietly from behind them and Alistair looked back. The golem had been acting strangely ever since they had arrived in the Deep Roads. At times it was unnaturally quiet, and every so often it would say something that felt haunting. If the golem had indeed been here, that was certainly something.

“Remember how to get in?” he asked, adjusting his shield.

“Wait.” Eideann glanced to him, then the door. “There are a lot of darkspawn in there. And if we can sense them…”

It was almost like a call. Out of nowhere there was a grunt and a few shrieks appeared. Alistair’s sword found the first, and he felt it sink in, strange flesh and bone that was different from stabbing a man. Maker, he wished he did not know what that actually felt like. 

He yanked his blade free and blocked the sword of a Hurlock as it came towards his head. Eideann was behind him, using him for cover. One of her arrows shot right past his head. A handsbredth to the left and it would have been in his own head. Instead it took the Hurlock through the arrowslit of its helmet, and the creature gave a foul-smelling roar before falling backward. Alistair swung about to the next one and Shale came crashing past him, hurling a few genlocks hard against the stone doors of Bownammar. 

But they were not stone. They were metal, burnished with time to the color of stone, and they rang out like bells at the impact, shaking the chamber about them.

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair spat. “Just inform them we are here, why don’t you?!” Shale ignored him, and Eideann circled about beside him, eyeing up her next target as it came running towards them.

“Ready for a fight?” she asked as she let the arrow fly, then nocked another with the ease of years of practice.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?” he asked her. “Leave some for the rest of us.” 

“Can’t use a shield,” she said simply, sending another arrow off. “And greatswords are also out.” 

“Ah, so you’re not perfect.” She gave him a flat look, then grinned and spun aside as he delivered a blow so hard to an oncoming Hurlock that the creature’s head went flying across the stone chamber. 

“Leave some for the rest of us,” Eideann called back, running up the steps towards Shale where she would have a better view.

It was only a scouting party in the end, but still enough darkspawn were up ahead that the fight was not yet done. Eideann collected her arrows as Oghren and Shale and Alistair pondered the door.

“Well…?” Alistair said after a moment. “Any idea how just four of us are going to open that?”

“These are the outer doors,” Oghren said. “They are not the hard ones.”

“Of course they aren’t,” Alistair said flatly, sighing. “How did the dwarves even get in?”

“Mechanism inside so it could be sealed, just in case, same as most of the great thaigs,” Oghren muttered.

“Those squishy darkspawn did not use the doors,” Shale pointed out. “Obviously we should go the way they did.”

“If they even came from inside,” Alistair sighed, but turned down the steps. “If we follow their trail, we may end up in a den rather than Bownammar.” 

“Or…” Eideann said, crossing to join them, “we may find a better way in, like Shale said.” She looked to the golem with her rainy gaze. “Nothing else, Shale?”

“I do not remember,” the golem said. So Eideann nodded and then motioned for them to split up.

At last Oghren gave a shout from the far side of the first set of gates where a tunnel split through the rock was hidden in near darkness.

“Here,” he said simply, and they hurried to join him. There was barely enough room within for them to pass one at a time, and Shale snorted.

“I shall not be going that way,” the golem said archly. “I am far too wide.” 

“I don’t like it either,” Eideann said. She had a concerned look on her face as she studied it. 

Though there was something ahead now, something horrible. Alistair felt a knot in the pit of his stomach roiling and twisting, and wanted to be sick. There were not just some darkspawn. Somewhere close there were more darkspawn than he had ever felt, even at Ostagar. They had found the bulk of the horde. 

And there was something else too. Something bigger, darker.

“I don’t like this,” Eideann said in a low murmur. “That…that _void_ …” 

It was a void, an emptiness that stretched into nothing ahead in the distance, and it made him dizzy to think on it. No. It couldn’t be.

“Alistair, if that is…” she was touching his arm now, meeting his gaze with a steady, frightened look. He was shaking a little too. “If it is, we can’t fight our way through all the horde to reach it.”

“So what? We do nothing?” 

“This is not the place to have this battle,” she said quietly. 

“We can’t do nothing,” he said in reply, voice a low murmur. She shook her head.

“We aren’t. We’re building an army. If we die here…Maker, if we die, there will be no one to…to…”

“Fine.” It felt cowardly, but it was tactically smart. They would stand no chance, two of them against the horde. If they had, this would have ended at Ostagar. They needed to be smart about this. “Should we turn back?”

“Are you coming, Dusters!?” came a sharp hiss from across the chamber behind them. A woman stood, tattooed face filthy with black designs, obscuring half her features. Her hair was pulled into several pigtails, and she stared at them, black armor dented and battered, eyes like flint. Alistair had no idea where she had come from. “Commander says let’s go!” 

“The Legion,” Oghren grinned and crossed to the Legionnaire who turned on her heel and slipped into a cave system on the opposite side of the great gates. Alistair knew for a fact that there had been nothing there just earlier, and shortly he found why. As soon as he was through the gap, there was the sound of rock grating, and a heavy boulder was slid back across the opening by a handful more Legionnaires.

“You got some balls banging on the doors, Dusters,” the girl muttered. 

“Thank you,” Alistair said simply, and the Legionnaires gathered about them, all but a few who stood at the far end of the chamber, holding shut a much smaller door. They were in a small hall flanked by paragon statues and Legion memorabilia. The whole thing glowed with the fires from oil braziers in all four corners. The ceiling was low, almost brushing Shale’s head. A mechanism stood in the center of the floor. They were in the original gatehouse. Alistair decided that the boulder and the entrance they had used were not part of the original designs, but had been dug out much more recently. 

“Thought you were reinforcements,” the girl told them, then turned away, eyes sharp and narrow. “Captain!” 

A man sidled up to them, beard the color of damp sand, and wiped a brow full of sweat away with the back of his gloved hand. 

“Atrast vala, Grey Wardens,” he said after looking them over quickly, gaze lingering only a moment longer on Shale than everyone else before dancing back to Eideann and Alistair. “I’ve never seen one of your kind in the Deep Roads.” Alistair narrowed his eyes. So Duncan never had made it so deep in, he had been correct. 

“And yet you don’t sound surprised,” Eideann said quietly, but she did not say it accusingly. She was probably as glad as he was that they had encountered someone who was not a darkspawn or a spider. Alistair gave a soldier’s bow.

“Well met, Legion,” he said warmly. Their leader grimaced.

“Name’s Kardol,” he said simply. “And no, I’m not surprised. In the Legion of the Dead, we abandon our lives to be free of fear, free of hopeful blindness.” He motioned with his axe towards the doorway his men were guarding. He beckoned for his men to step aside, and they did instantly. He reached for the door. “There’s something you need to see.” 

Alistair hesitated, then nodded and moved forward, sword held tight in his hand, and Kardol opened the door enough for them to slip out. Alistair went through, and Eideann followed, and the door swung shut behind them. 

He led them forward, creeping and slow, to the edge of the chasm, his heart pounding. Across the chasm, the hulking form of an ogre stood, and a number of other darkspawn, and they were so close he could feel the taint. But he felt a greater number down within the chasm, and he leaned over as far as he dared to stare into the darkness below.

Rows upon rows of darkspawn marched deep down within the chasm, the flickering of the lights of torches and fires so numerous the entire chasm glowed like a nest of fireflies. And it went on, stretching into the distance as far as he could see. He froze, unable to move, unable to do anything. 

“Maker’s blood,” he heard Eideann breath beside him, and looked back at her.

“Eideann…” He couldn’t say anything else.

And then suddenly it was there. The deep darkness of _nothingness_ that rippled through them an instant before they were thrown back. The force of it streaming past them was enormous, and Alistair flung himself down, dragging himself and Eideann back behind a rock near the ledge for some sort of shelter. 

It soared high into the heights of the cavern, wings like sheared metal, disturbing the air, and circled about to land heavily on the bridge, its back to them. 

It was all horns and vicious teeth, pinprick eyes and serpentine body that twisted and turned atop the stone bridge. Its roar was a piercing wail that made Alistair’s head hurt, and he bent low over the rock. His heart nearly stopped. The beast’s mouth yawned, and purple and black flame spewed forth, causing the air to ripple in heatwaves. Alistair’s head was pounding, the taint so close, so…there.

He prayed, for the first time since leaving the Chantry, tears in his eyes.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. Maker protect us, maker save us all…_

And then Eideann’s hand was on him, pulling him backwards, inching towards the far wall, where they sat together, hands clasped tight, shaking and staring. The Archdemon roared again, taking flight and thundering off down the tunnel into the distance. Eideann’s fingers gripped his hand tighter, and she pulled him up, and they ran, fleeing back into the gatehouse, where the Legionnaires gathered about them. Kardol was watching them with a cautious look. Eideann sank back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut.

“Lothering,” she breathed. “I saw it. This.” Alistair watched her, panting, trying to calm himself down. 

_Maker, protect us…_

How in the Void were they ever going to kill _that_. A dragon he could manage. Maker, he’d killed Flemeth as a dragon. But that…that was no dragon. Being near it made his skull feel like it was splitting open. And he was scared. Maker, he was so scared he had been an inch from wetting himself. How could someone be brave against that. 

Eideann leaned forward, head in her hands a moment, then drew a deep breath and forced herself to rise. They were the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. There was no one else. He forced himself to focus too. 

But Holy Maker…how would they ever…? 

Kardol’s eyes were like coals on him, reading his fear, and he forced himself to be brave. Eideann was doing the same. She finally released his hand.

“The coming Blight is obvious to us,” Kardol said simply, voice low. “The surprise is not that you have come, but that you have come in so small a number.”

Eideann pushed past them, arms crossed, bow still in her left hand. Alistair grimaced.

“Believe me, we wish we were more as well,” Alistair said softly, and Kardol’s gaze narrowed slightly in despair.

And then Eideann turned back, face all business, eyes burning.

“I need to find Paragon Branka,” she said fiercely. Kardol scoffed, shaking his head.

“What?! Who put this dull idea in your head?” he spat, looking about at his men. “We’ve other things to worry about in Orzammar.” Well, at least there was one dwarf from Orzammar who had some amount of sense and thought the entire thing was a ridiculous endeavor. Alistair could be grateful for that. After what they had just witnessed, he would never be ungrateful again. “Ah, now I see. The deep lords in the Assembly can’t make up their minds,s o the pretenders need added influence. I get that right?” Kardol demanded, his voice like venom. Eideann nodded. 

“That’s about it,” she said flatly. “You have anything useful to add?” 

“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” Kardol told them, looking disgruntled. “Paragon Branka is dead, everyone with sense knows it. Past our line, the darkspawn kill everything.” 

“Then move your line,” Eideann said. Maker, like it was that easy.

“Move the…I’d gladly lead an assault through the Dead Trenches, but without a fool on the throne, I have no orders!” Kardol said. Maker, what a mess. But there was sense in it. The only way across over the chasm of marching darkspawn below them was across that bridge. If they could just take the bridge, get to the main gates…that would be a start. It was damn foolish. They were going to get themselves killed. But there was no choice. They had to go forward.

“Ever heard of the Anvil of the Void?” Eideann asked the Legionnaires, but they just shuffled about blankly and Kardol snorted again.

“Never seen it,” he says, “but if it exists, it ain’t for us. But if you’re looking for Paragons, Warden, you may as well look for the Anvil. And endless lyrium too.” Ah, the charm of the disgruntled layman. It was strangely refreshing, like listening to the stablehands in Redcliffe when Master Dennet was not around, or the washerwomen when they took their laundry down the Lake Calenhad to scrub clean. 

“That, out there,” Eideann said, pointing to the doors, “was the Archdemon. That’s it. Right there. And that horde will descend upon Thedas with all the horrible might of the Blight. We can’t sit here. We have to move. The darkspawn horde was birthed here. If we can take it…”

“Take it?! Warden, are you lyrium addled? You just said the Archdemon was here,” Kardol objected. “I have a handful of soldiers, as do you. What are we going to do against a horde.” 

“Play this smart and cool-headed. First, we’ll take the bridge.”

“We’ve been trying to for weeks,” the woman legionnaire who had met them at first said, shaking her head. “Not possible. They’re guarding the end.” 

“We have to move the line. It will actually be safer in there. The horde is below, not beyond.”

“And how do you know?”

“We can feel them,” Eideann said flatly, and Alistair nodded when Kardol looked to him to confirm. “We have to get going while that beast is gone. Or it will be too late.” Kardol crossed his arms, then gave her a dark look.

“Why?” he asked simply. “The other kingdoms only care when the darkspawn threaten the surface.” That was a valid point, but they were there as Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, and they cared all the time.

“If we can win back Bownammar, we strike a decisive blow against the darkspawn, and you and yours get this Thaig back. We came through Caridin’s Cross from Orzammar, via the old Ortan Thaig. The Deep Roads are mostly clear. If we can get dwarven soldiers stationed in outposts like this, when the Blight is defeated, the darkspawn will have nowhere left to hide,” Eideann said softly. Kardol grimaced.

“Fine, we’ll help take the bridge, but we stop at the gates and wait for orders after that. Keep your reclaiming the empire, Warden. We’re here to kill darkspawn.”

“Thank you.” She slipped her bag from her back and bent to open it. Alistair crossed to join her, crouching beside her, and sighed.

“What is the plan here, Eideann?” he asked simply. “I am not going to charge that bridge without some idea what we are doing. I’m taint-resistant, not immortal.”

“I have a few ideas,” Eideann said, drawing forth a few vials from the bottom of her pack. He blinked and she passed them to him. “Hold these. We will need them.” 

“Maker’s blood. You aren’t…?” She grinned at him.

“Oh yes. I am,” she assured him. “And you are coming with me.”

***

The first vial hit the bridge and shattered, sending a sheet of ice creeping across the broken stone. The second burst further along, joining it, until there was a slick section of bridge where the walls had been knocked away by the Archdemon, and no safe way to cross. 

Eideann stood at the foot of the bridge, arrow nocked and drawn back tight to her cheek. Bound to the arrow was a jar of oil, and a slick of fire that burned on the padded end. She would have to aim it just right, but she had a chance to get things really moving. She took her time, because the jar was sealed tight, and aimed carefully. She could just about make it across the far chasm. 

And then she loosed the arrow. It flew, arching high across the bridge, a beacon that caught the attention of a few of the darkspawn archers, who growled and roared across the way, and then it slowly arched back down, meeting at last with the steps at the far end, slamming into the earth and shattering the glass, throwing oil across the far end of the bridge. And then it went up in flames. 

Some of the darkspawn were enveloped in the fire, shrieking in pain. Others roared and ran the only way they could to escape the quick tongues, back down towards them and the bridge. 

And that was when they caught sight of Eideann standing at the end of the bridge. Aware of her now, and focusing on the taint that connected them, they came for her, roaring, and Eideann retreated with her bow as crossbow bolts tore past her from Alistair covering her escape. She fled back down the bridge towards the gates and the gatehouse, and the darkspawn followed, until they hit the patch of ice. 

They slipped.

“Now!” She cried, and Kardol’s Legionnaires raced forward to form a defensive line that took the bridge step by step until they reached the slippery ice and stopped. The darkspawn slid right into their blades, and some even went screaming off the bridge. And Eideann watched as the Legionnaires harried them harder. 

When the darkspawn were dead and the first of her fire arrowed died down, Eideann recognized the sound of darkspawn racing towards them from the other side. These were archers, which took up position at the far end of the bridge and took aim at them. Kardol’s men brought up their shields, and Alistair hurried to her side, shield up, to cover her as she stepped out of range of the arrows.

“The Legion gives no quarter!” Kardol was shouting to his men, who roared in reply. 

“Shale!” The golem stormed up the bridge, through the gap Kardol’s men made, and across the ice, too heavy to slide in the thin sheet, but heavy enough to break it to shards, which the Legionnaires kicked from the bridge. They followed the golem, axes and swords ready, and Oghren hurried after then with Angus. Eideann shouldered her bow and drew instead her swords, giving Alistair a small nod, and then they followed suit.

The first wave hit the Legion after Shale had already knocked some from the bridge. But Shale was not impermeable, even against darkspawn, and the golem was having trouble standing against the onslaught. Eideann tore through the battle to the front lines, blades whirling, and cut a path of blood and corpses through the darkspawn. Alistair forced another from the bridge at her side, and the Legionnaires made room as Oghren’s axe swung, covering the whole span of the bridge. There was nowhere for the darkspawn to hide.

Most of them appeared to be genlocks up on the bridge, short beasts that were fast and deadly with knives but not too good with swords. Kardol’s men took them with ease, cutting them down one by one and shoving them over the bridge sides to make room for the next fight. 

Eideann pulled the next vial from under her belt, and threw it, arcing it high over their heads, letting it smash down at the far end of the bridge. Ice again under the archers, which ignored it. They were stood still and had no need to move. Just as planned.

Eideann called to Shale, whose crystals glowed purple, and then lightning shot forth from the golem’s arms, crackling into the ice and melting it into a pool of water that served as a conduit. The lightning arced across the genlock archers, and even took out a few shrieks that had been hiding in wait at the edge of the bridge and caught in the trap. Eideann grinned and swung her swordblade through a genlock’s head and arm, rending it asunder and then forcing it over the bridge edge.

And she pulled out her last vial, one she had not actually purchased with Zevran’s coins. This she had gathered herself in Ortan Thaig from the deep crawler corpses that had littered the area. Poison, venom so strong it corroded metal. She flung it as hard as she could into the second wave, and it shattered against the breastplate of a Hurlock Alpha, which roared as it ate through its armor and into its blighted flesh. 

The Legionnaires stood their ground as the darkspawn were enveloped in a fog of toxic fumes from the poison, and emerged the other side with blistering wounds and damaged armor. There was a smite across the bridge as Alistair shot down an emissary that had been preparing to cast a spell, and then another as he moved forward. The dwarves followed, eager now, as the toxic cloud dissipated, and hit at the final darkspawn with zeal. These two were felled, added to the bodies, and Eideann, exhausted, moved for the final trial. 

Arrow narrowly missed her from the remaining archers, but Angus was racing in to take them out immediately, and the Legionnaires poured from the bridge into the opening to handle the rest, fanning out across the platform. Alistair and Eideann faced down the ogre alone.

It came at them, head lowered, charging like a bull. Eideann felt Alistair push her clear, and he rolled aside just in time as well. Eideann pushed herself up, twisting her swords into firmer positions in her hands, and ran at the beast, and she heard Alistair’s warcry as he did the same on the other side. Confused, the creature turned, focusing on her as she was closer, and she ducked its first swing, leaping clear of its fists as they slammed into the earth. Her blades found its legs, thick trunks of mottled flesh, and she cut through the tendons there, bringing it to its knee. And then she hit it with everything she had, Alistair at her side doing just the same thing, and the creature toppled. Her feet were moving before her mind was, and she was atop the wailing beast in an instant, slamming her swords down into its chest and grinding them deep to make sure it was dead. The creature roared, flailing hopelessly in the air, and she slammed her blade down one last time, with all the force she could muster. Silverite caused its flesh to bubble and blister and turn black, and she waited a moment as it settled, silent, its blood fountaining up from the wound and across her armor. Then she yanked her swords free, stepping back and leaping down, and turned to examine the field.

It was empty of all but the Legionnaires and her own companions, full of felled darkspawn that the Legion was double-checking was dead. And Kardol was watching her, eyes alight with some grim determination, a smile twisting the corner of his face. 

“Well, Warden, I’ll give you credit for backbone,” he said, crossing to stand beside her. “You’ve dug a line through the ‘spawn. Still no sense in your head, but you’ve got skill.” Eideann just sheathed her swords and then looked up towards the great gates, the main ones this time, that climbed towards the ceiling of Orzammar. There were more darkspawn beyond, them but the bulk was behind them now in the chasm below, and that was comforting, in a strange way. She could still hear the pounding of marching feet echoing up towards them, and that was not quite as comforting. “Well, this is where we leave you, Warden. If you carry on round that way, the ‘spawn dug a tunnel which will give you access.” They had clearly been watching that bridge for days. “Good luck, Grey Wardens,” he said softly, then his gaze slipped to Oghren. “And watch yourself,” he added grimly. “Drunks make poor allies.” Eideann smirked slightly and shook her head.

“We shall see,” she said simply and then turned away towards the gates. Alistair followed, and Eideann gave a whistle for Angus to follow them. Oghren turned away without another word.

The woman legionnaire stood near the entrance, and she nodded them in with a sober look.

“Be careful,” she told them, her axe in both hands. “Bownammar is the City of the Dead, and the living have no place there.” Eideann just thanked her and then moved onward, but she went by instinct alone, always aware of the presence of the taint pounding in her blood and whispering to her in words she could not understand of the darkness up ahead.

Ruck had made her wary, and Eideann doubted they would find Branka after seeing the sheer numbers of the horde out in the chasm and again on the bridge. The Archdemon itself was there in Bownammar, a corrupted old god. The dwarves could claim whatever they liked about their Paragons, but they were still flesh and blood, and they still died if tainted, just like everyone else. Even Grey Wardens died of the taint eventually. 

Faced with the truth of the Archdemon in the flesh, unable to shake the images of the dream from her mind, Eideann’s mind danced over the lessons she had learned as a girl, safe in the study in Highever Castle, listening to Alduous’s lessons on Tevinter’s Old Gods and the histories of the Blights. Tevinter had seven gods, and one had risen in each of the Blights, corrupted and tainted and the bane of men. That feeling, that…Void she had felt…that truly was the bane of men, and after seeing the dragon that had been Flemeth’s final form, and comparing the two, the Archdemons were not dragons. No, this was something else, something more, something of raw power, and evil, twisted and tainted and destruction made flesh. 

She had no idea how she was going to kill one. And the thought of having to try made her want to cry. 

Ancient Bownammar, Caridin’s city, was a criss-cross of broken bridges and deep-set tunnels carved long ago. It was incredible to see, amazing to imagine what it once could have been, suspended bridges holding the weight of armies and rooms filled with crypts and lit with the largest braziers she had seen. But the darkspawn owned it now, and they lingered in the tombs and crypts. Their blighted forms haunted the halls like ghosts.

She had to be clever to kill them all. She drew her bow again, to be safe, and nocked an arrow.

The first group were mere scouts sent to investigate the trouble at the gates or some such. Angus dragged one down, Oghren silenced another, and Eideann’s arrow found the throat of the final one before they could make a sound, but it was a warning of more ahead, and so they went carefully. 

There were only pockets after that, not really organized. So when they stepped out of the fresh tunnel and onto the stone pavement of the first terrace of Bownammar’s interior, it was an easy thing for Alistair to dispatch the darkspawn emissary waiting for them, and Eideann’s arrows pierced the hearts of the waiting genlocks. 

Why were there so many genlocks? It felt very strange. Some would be understandable, but all? 

There was something she was missing. 

They moved quietly across the terrace, and Eideann considered the broken bridge that would have once led across the deep lava pool that lit Bownammar’s depths. If only it still stood, but no. They would have to take the back halls.

Those halls were lined with sarcophagi of Legionnaires killed centuries prior, returned to the Stone to lie with their brothers and sisters in the City of the Dead. Eideann stepped carefully around them, unnerved by the dead, which reminded her too much of the elves in their Uthenera. Oghren lifted the lid of one of the sarcophagi, but Eideann gave a sharp hiss.

“Put it down, that’s someone’s dead,” she said coldly, and he was so surprised to hear her actually angry at him, he did as he was told and peered at her curiously afterward. At one point the chambers had not been connected, but the walls had been knocked clear and tunnels dug presumably after the bridge had fallen. The darkspawn made those tunnels their homes, and their totems graced the caverns, twisted and horrible.

They made Eideann think of Ostagar and the Tower of Ishal. They made Eideann think of the Circle Tower too. 

She pressed on, grim-faced. 

There were very few paragon statues there now, only those that Oghren said were of Paragon Caridin, for building the thaig, placed after his death. The chambers were old, worn, cracked stone that displayed the same ancient architecture that Eideann had seen in Ortan Thaig or the lower districts in Orzammar. Caridin had lived during the First Blight almost a thousand years ago, and had built those tunnels during that time. They walked in halls no one had touched since the empire was lost long, long ago. It made her blood cold to think on it.

No one except the darkspawn.

It was said they lived forever, fed by the Blight. No one knew where they had come from originally, but it must be somewhere. It must have been something. They replenished their numbers between Blights, but it was possible that here, in the deepest depths of the ancient kingdoms, the oldest darkspawn lingered, ancient as the First Blight, driven back when Dumat fell upon the Silent Plains.

She looked to Alistair, and caught him watching her, amber eyes somber. And she thought of his warmth then, his laughter and jokes, his soft sighs in the darkness beneath the lyrium, and drew strength from that memory. He nodded to her, as if he could sense her thoughts, and they pressed on.

The tunnel opened up back into another crypt, and this time Oghren kept his hands to himself. There were more darkspawn there, waiting, and Eideann finished them off with a cool efficiency alongside the others, feeling an impending sense of darkness. It was not so much the taint she could sense, but something more, something older, and Alistair was equally effected, because he was as quiet and dour as she then.

The second crypt open up into a grand chamber with high ceilings carved into intricate columns and flutes. One of the walls had been knocked down and expanded into a deep cave that glowed with firelight. Darkspawn totems crowded the hall, marking this as their place, and Eideann nocked another arrow, grimacing, and carefully pacing into the space for a better view, motioning for Shale to stay put in silence. The golem just did as she said without comment, and Eideann crept forward. 

The darkspawn had established a forge in the cave, and it glimmered with the hot forge-flames, casting deep shadows across the hall. A genlock, scarred and twisted, stood, massive hammer in his hands, beside the forge, and the rest of the room teemed with darkspawn. Rows and rows of darkspawn weapons lined the chamber, an armory to feed the Blight. Eideann grimaced, wondering if she could hit the genlock forgemaster from there. But he kept going behind the totems, and missing would immediately alert them to their presence. They did not have the advantage of narrow halls here, nor the ability to trick the darkspawn into coming to them in advantage. So she backed away slowly and motioned to the others.

“There’s a ringleader with a huge hammer by the forge, but the rest are scattered about the cave. But we can’t slip past. We have to shut this down. It’s a weapons factory,” she murmured. “The moment Shale moves, they’ll know we are here, so we’ll have to move fast. Shale, go right for that forgemaster. His hammer can’t injure you like it can the rest of us, and if you can break him, we can handle the rest. Oghren, take the right of the cave. There are archers near the back. I will try and get rid of those. Alistair, support Shale on the left, but if you see any emissaries, you know what to do.” She grimaced, then eyed them up. “Angus, with me.” The dog gave a low growl at the sharp command, but she would need the protection if she was being solely an archer without any defense, sending all of them into the cave without her. Anything could attack her from behind. Angus listened, still loyal only to her, and dogged her heels as she drew away. 

“Now,” she said, and aimed for the first archer. Her arrow knocked the genlock back, and the second pierced its heart. The darkspawn were aware of them and surged forward, but Oghren and Alistair held their line and Shale made a dash for the forgemaster.

It was over in moments, the forgemaster’s skull crushed upon the stones, the archers peppered full of arrows, the others dead or dying from blade wounds. Angus stood, snarling at her side, but he did not move, and finally she lowered her bow and her hand found his fur. Then he eased, and gave a happy yap at her, and she smiled slightly.

“Good boy.”

“Maker, the darkspawn are smart enough to forge weapons? They’re pretty heavily imbedded here,” Alistair said, rejoining her, splattered in darkspawn blood. 

“Aye, they would. It’s remote, good breeding ground,” Oghren muttered with distaste. “As for forges, they get those nasty weapons from somewhere.”

“I always thought ghouls did the work for them,” Alistair replied, shaking his head. “The idea that they’re intelligent enough to make their own…Maker’s breath. Where are we anyway? Why here?”

“I think we may be somewhere close to Ostagar,” Eideann told him quietly. “When Duncan and I rode from Highever, we took the quickest route across the Bannorn, and it took us a little over a week and a half. If we assume we travel only a day for each day and a half on the surface, we are probably close. We know Bownammar is in the south under Ferelden. And the Archdemon…well, I’ll bet the chasm there feeds right into its prison somewhere further south-west where they said the darkspawn first started to emerge.”

“Wonderful,” Alistair grimaced. “Just where I wanted to be. Ostagar again.” Eideann just shook her head.

“We need to keep moving,” Oghren grunted, shuffling them along. The chamber emerged onto the cross-bridge over the pool of lava that bubbled below. There were a few darkspawn on the bridge, but not many, and they dealt with them as all the others.

“Not far now,” Eideann said, pointing. “Only one more set of tunnels until we reach the far side.” Alistair gave her a dubious look, but she brushed it off, unable to get rid of her own sense of unease. There was something there, something different, not the archdemon, but not just the tainted horde. And she did not really want to find out. 

She had the feeling that someone was watching them, but there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to see. She stepped cautiously then, over the threshold into the next chamber. They weren’t the same crypts anymore, but more of the tall-ceilinged halls, gathering rooms perhaps? Eideann nocked another arrow as they stepped into the chamber. There were definitely darkspawn ahead.

But it was not just darkspawn, or rather barely any darkspawn. The majority of the force that attacked them there were undead possessed by spirits at the behest of a mage. Alistair immediately took off at a run towards the back of the room where the darkspawn emissary stood, surrounded by its undead force. Oghren knocked a few of the rotting corpses asunder, and Shale swept a few more aside with the single swipe of a massive stone arm. Eideann’s arrows took some down, though it was not as effective as hacking at the dead limbs with swords. All the same, there was the feeling of a smite erupting across the chamber, the force of it making the floor shake a little, and Eideann looked up to catch Alistair beheading the emissary with a sharp cry for the effort. 

He kicked the remains of a few corpses to make sure they were dead, then shook his head as they joined him, eyes dark.

“These are dwarven,” he said grimly, and Oghren gritted his teeth.

“Legion dead?” Eideann asked softly, looking for a way out of the implication, but Alistair just shook his head sadly.

“Legion bones are all dust, Warden,” Oghren explained roughly, then stormed off a moment in rage to control himself somewhere away from them.

“We’re on the right track,” Alistair told her quietly, letting Oghren have his space. “These are recent, definitely Branka’s. Too much flesh left not to be.”

“So she did come this way,” Eideann said simply, glancing to one of the corpses, pockets of flesh still hanging from its bones. “Maker…we knew it would be like this. We knew they would be dead.” But her eyes went up then to the walls, where clumps of flesh seemed to be growing, and she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “That, though…Maker, it’s like the Circle.” Alistair followed her gaze, gritting his teeth.

“I don’t know, Eideann. I honestly have no idea what we will find up ahead.”

“That...growth. That's the same,” Eideann insisted. “The same as was caused by the blood magic in the Tower.” He met her eyes, and this time he had nothing left to say.

“Yes.” Eideann looked away, staring at a clear space on the floor, trying to banish the thoughts as if it would make it all disappear.

“Maker, I can’t do this,” she murmured, and Alistair stepped forward, his glove catching her arm through her sleeve and squeezing softly for reassurance. 

"You can," he told her. "We have to." She nodded.

Oghren came back to them, eyes narrow and red. 

“We have to keep going. Some of them have to be alive," he insisted, his voice forceful and a little rough still. Eideann just let her gaze slip to him, and then she drew a breath and nodded again. This was his family, his house, everyone he knew. They had to at least try. For him, if nothing else.

“We will find them,” she said, forcing her voice to say the words. “We will.” One way or another. Dead or alive.

And then that feeling of being watched was back. Eideann looked up sharply, trying to work out what it was, drawing her bow and staring about the chamber. There was nothing to see, no one there, but there was a sound that came echoing up out of the depths, both everywhere and nowhere. It was a voice, speaking both to them and to no one at all. And the words made Eideann’s blood run cold.

“First day, they come and catch everyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Specific warnings will be posted for next chapter. If you would rather not read the chapter after viewing the warnings, I will post a synopsis of important details in the notes below that chapter so you may skip it. I know for some people who may be enjoying the story that it may be difficult to read, so I want to give that option to those who would like it. I am posting this note here so that you are aware of this option in advance, and will repeat it again in the notes of the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you! ~HigheverRains
> 
> Notes on location and timing:  
> So the reason it has taken me this long to write chapters is because I had to actually put together a map of the Deep Roads as they relate to the surface, which was annoying and complicated, but now done, and so yay. I found out a lot of cool stuff about the Deep Roads map, and for those interested you can find details below Suffice to say all time measurements are based on the map I put together and references of in-game time overall. We know the Fifth Blight took place over the span of a year, so it appears to be working fairly well time-wise so far. 
> 
> HigheverRain's Cool Things for Those That Are Interested:  
> -The Deep Roads map in game is not oriented north-south-east-west. It's actually rotated significantly. Various sources allowed me to line up the map accordingly, and this sort of new alignment is backed up by evidence like Branka's journal mentioning Bownammar is south from Ortan Thaig. Another piece of evidence is that the Deep Roads Map itself (top right corner) actually has an arrow pointing up saying "Frostback Mountains this way" or some such.  
> -Ortan Thaig is located under the area of West Hill, which we know because when Maric, Loghain, and Rowan escaped the disasterous battle there during the war with Orlais, they fled into Ortan Thaig, so it has to be close. The river in Ortan Thaig appears to correspond to the River Dane which flows through the area, though obviously this would be an underground tributary.  
> -The weird tower sign marked on the Deep Roads map appears to actually correspond with the location of Corypheus's prison in the Vimmark Mountains west of Kirkwall. The prison definitely had a Deep Roads exit as there were dwarves trapped inside it, including the original Tethras, Varric's ancestor. (I actually think this location corresponding so well is super cool).  
> -Caridin's Cross is located somewhere south of Crestwood alongside the shores of Lake Calenhad. Since Dagna once mentioned it took two weeks to travel from Orzammar to the Circle Tower (via surface roads) and the Deep Roads ignore the lake and go right under, I estimated it would only take about a week to travel so far underground.  
> -At this angle, Bownammar actually does fall in the vicinity of Ostagar, and a little south, with the Anvil of the Void deep in the Korcari Wilds. The chasm that cuts through Southron Hills and South Reach where there are actually marked mountains or at the very least hills, which seem to suggest tectonic activity that could very well align with that chasm and all the lava around there.  
> -The weird crossed axes sigil below Bownammar on the map actually lies right on top of Gwaren, which we know was named after the dwarven settlement of Gwaren which meant "salt pool", so that lines up well too.  
> -Cadash Thaig lies not too far from Soldier's Peak about halfway between Amaranthine and Highever. It makes sense that it is located up that way, since it is flooded, and that area is literally the Coastlands.  
> -We know around Crestwood there is an outpost dedicated to Paragon Hekkat (founder of architecture or something silly) which is halfway between Aeducan Thaig and the lost kingdom of Gundaar. The best match I found for Gundaar was that sigil of the dog thing, and that actually tends to line up very well with Dragon's Peak Bannorn and Denerim, which would mean that it would make sense having a dog sigil as the dog is of course the sigil of the Theirins and well-associated with Ferelden and the Alamarri. If it does align with Denerim, then it also makes sense that the Battle of Denerim occurred without much warning, as the darkspawn could simply pop up out the ground and march forth without travelling over land long distances.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann, Alistair, Oghren, and Shale hear the story of what happened to Branka's house; Eideann's group faces down the source of darkspawn in Bownammar; the group reaches the Anvil of the Void and works their way through Caridin's gauntlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence; Rape (mentioned/implied); Cannibalism (mentioned/implied); graphic descriptions of gore
> 
> For those who feel they are unable to read this chapter in light of the warnings, there is a summary posted in the notes below for you so you may continue to read the story in subsequent chapters. ~HigheverRains

_“First day they come and catch everyone.”_

Eideann lowered her bow and drew back a step. The others were frozen, staring about. Eideann glanced to Oghren, Shale, then Alistair, but no one knew. Even Shale seemed ill-at-ease.

“I do not like this,” the golem said quietly, and that was the understatement of the year. Eideann swallowed, hard, and shuddered. 

“Whatever is up there…” Alistair began but Eideann silenced him with a shake of her head.

“That voice was dwarven. We have to go on,” she said, forcing herself to think it through, forcing herself to push ahead. “We can’t falter now. We’ve come too far. We need to see it through.” She pushed through them then, hoping they drew confidence from her movement, and shouldered her bow, drawing her swords instead. She wanted the option to move at any point. 

But thoughts of the Tower hung in her head, those fleshy nodules only grew in number, lining the crypts and coating the darkspawn totems, seemingly natural against the latter. That worried her more than anything.

“There is a connection,” she said softly, more to herself, though Alistair drew close to listen, “between the darkspawn and the Fade. Or else how would this be the same? How would we have dreams of the Archdemon and then they turned out to be real? Why would lyrium sing and the Blight sing and the Fade sing.”

“I never want to hear singing again,” Alistair grumbled, shield on his arm and sword raised. “Eideann, please be careful.” Eideann nodded, and then wet her lips and pressed on.

 _“Second day they beat us, and eat some for meat.”_

It was the darkspawn. The darkspawn had done it. This strange haunting rhyme was trying to tell a story. And all the time there was the same feeling of being watched. 

Abominations, or worse, and no way to turn back. Eideann could feel the sweat in her palms within her Warden gloves. 

Worse still, there were fewer darkspawn in those tunnels. They still ran into the occasional genlock, but it seemed even the darkspawn were avoiding the chambers ahead, and that scared her more.

_“Third day the men are all gnawed on again.”_

Eideann forced the feeling away, forced herself to focus on the tunnels, on the patterns in the stone. But she was too aware, too focused, and it just made the voice louder. 

_”Fourth day we wait and fear for our fate.”_

Who was speaking? One of Branka’s people. It had to be. It was not a small group the chanting was speaking of, but a larger one, lots of people captured together, some eaten, some beaten, some waiting in fear. Maker’s blood.

“It sounds like…” Oghren said slowly, then shook his head, and when she looked back he had a haunted look in his eyes.

“What?” Eideann pressed, but he just shook his head again slowly.

“No, Warden,” he replied, his voice quiet, and so she let it drop.

 _Fifth day they return, and it’s another girl’s turn._

Oh, Maker. Strange shadows flickered on the cavern walls from roaring bonfires of wood. Wood, there in the heart of Bownammar. It had to come from the remains of Branka’s expedition. Over three hundred dwarves, and none had been heard of again. They had found them, traces at least, and ahead lay answers. And something far worse.

The sensation inside her mind was shifting, still strange, still horrible, still different. It was not the void of the Archdemon. It was not the taint of the regular darkspawn. It was something else, something more, and also something less than whole. She bit down on her tongue and forced herself to breath.

_“Sixth day her screams we hear in our dreams.”_

“Warden, I think I know that voice,” Oghren said, and she looked around to see he was pale and looked incredibly sick.

“What?” Alistair asked, stopping in his tracks too.

“It…it’s familiar. It sounds like – ”

_“Seventh day she grew, as in her mouth they spew.”_

“Sodding Ancestors, what are we hearing?” Oghren demanded.

“Oghren, we have to stay calm. We have to. There is something…something wrong here. We cannot panic, or we will die,” Eideann told him, distinctly wanting to panic herself. Maker, what had they done to this girl? To all of them?

“I know the darkspawn have ghouls,” Alistair said softly, “but why take three hundred dwarves?” 

Ghouls were dwarves or elves or men once, corrupted by the taint, devoid of their humanity. But the darkspawn…they did not eat, so why take prisoners for meat. Unless…

Maker, she was going to be sick. She wanted to be sick.

No.

She would not be sick. She gripped her sword hilt tighter.

“Let’s move,” she hissed, and carried on up the tunnel carved through the earth. 

They needed that army, and they had come this far. She would not turn tail and run. Angus, trailing her, had his tail tucked in, and his ears were flat. He peered at her with a low whine, sensing their fear, and she bit her lip hard to bring her focus back.

 _”Eighth day we hated as she is violated.”_

The voice was deadpan, emotionless, dark and deep. A dwarven accent. One of Branka’s house. Eideann felt sick.

And then the voice suddenly changed, thick with emotion, thick with pain and anguish, softer, horrified.

 _”Ninth day she grins and devours her kin.”_ Eideann had to stop, to stand still a moment, unable to breathe or move or anything. Tears pricked her eyes. Fear welled within her, and the sensation of that darkness was closer now, at the heart of it. 

“Eideann.” Alistair drew alongside her, giving her a worried look. “Eideann, we can’t stop here. It isn’t safe,” he said softly. She shook her head.

“What the Void is this?” she hissed, and he looked away, chewing on his own lip.

“I don’t know. Maker, I don’t know.” Eideann nodded, then glanced a look at Oghren who now looked like he had peaked at horror and turned off, unable to take anymore.

“We should go back.” Alistair turned on her then, fixing her with a look that made her instantly ashamed.

“We need that army,” he said. “We have a clan of elves and a handful of mages and Templars, Eideann. We need this army. Just a little more. Please.” So she went, unwilling, further into the depths of Bownammar.

 _You are the Warden-Commander,_ she told herself angrily. _Hold it together, Cousland._

They reached the end of the tunnel where it opened into the next chamber, and Eideann carefully, slowly, full of fear, stepped out onto the paved floor.

 _“Now she does feast, as_ she’s _become the beast.”_ There was a woman, crouched between the fleshy growth and staring at it with her head tilted, hair greasy and unwashed. When she heard the footsteps, she slowly rose, and shuffled around, and Eideann saw her eyes glowed silver with the corruption of the taint, and her skin was mottled and marred with black and grey. She was a ghoul, or something close, twisted and corrupted. 

And yet she was coherent, more so than Ruck had been. Not a ghoul then, something different. Something more than the taint, and less. Not the looming darkness she could sense further beyond, but something else, its weaker shadow, its lesser sister, a promise and a nightmare. 

“Hespith?” Eideann heard Oghren’s gruff tones behind her, and she looked back at the redheaded warrior. 

“Who is she?”

“My cousin,” Oghren said. His eyes were haunted.

“What is this?” she asked softly. “A human?” Her lips twisted slightly in a mirthless smile. “I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers’ faces and open doors.” Eideannn felt her stomach turn, and she forced herself to stay her ground even as Angus took a step back, her fearsome wardog finally cowed. Maker, what was this?

“This isn’t darkspawn corruption,” Eideann said softly to Alistair, but he made no reply. The dwarf gave her mirthless smile again.

“Corruption! The _men_ did that!” she said. “Their wounds festered and their minds left. They are like dogs, marched ahead, the first to die. Not us, not me, not Laryn. We are not cut, we are fed. Friends and felsha nd blood and bile and…and…” Eideann wanted to be sick. The woman’s waxy skin and greasy hair and taint-blighted eyes were corruption from the darkspawn, from the remains of her house fed back to her. Darkspawn had no need to eat, but ghouls did. And her story…her chant…it had been about her, about them. The dwarf was watching her with piercing eyes, reading her thoughts, and lowered her head slightly to stare at her through her hair. “All I could do was wish Laryn went first. I wished it upon her so I would be spared,” she murmured. “But I had to watch. I had to see the change. How do you endure that?” Her haunted voice was horrible. “How did Branka endure?”

“Branka?” Eideann started, looking back at Oghren, then to the dwarf again.

“Are you from Branka’s house?” she asked gently. Any confirmation. Anything to start. 

“Do _not_ talk of Branka!” the woman snapped, stepped back, fearful and angry both. “Of what she did! Her lover, and I could not turn her! Forgive her. But no, she cannot be forgiven! Not for what she did. Not for what she has become.” Eideann felt a flash of fear. Was this poem about Branka? No, someone else perhaps. But Branka had been there, and this woman knew where she was now.

“When did you last see her?” she asked. How had Branka escaped the darkspawn? She did not dare look at Oghren now.

“No more than a few breaths, but long than an eon,” Hespith said in a sad voice. “It was long enough to miss her, to love her again, to hate her more again.” She shook her head, eyes slits of silver in the odd light. “I will not hear any more about Branka.”

The Paragon had done something terrible, horrible, to all of them. This Laryn, who was she? _Where_ was she? The men were eaten, then fed back to the women, and the women were corrupted by cannibalization and the taint. Maker’s blood. 

“Hespith, I can end this,” Eideann said firmly. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“End this?!” Hespith cried, giving a desperate mad laugh, her face twisting into despair and hate. “I am full of them! Only a step from Laryn!” She turned away, desperate, wild, and shook her head violently. “I will _not_ become what I have seen! Not Laryn! Not Branka!” And then she ran, shoving through them and out through the crypt door. Eideann turned after her, and caught sight of Oghren who was staring at the fleshy nodules growing about the room. Dwarven bodies stood pierced on stakes, raw and bloody. Eideann tore her gaze away.

“Oghren,” she said firmly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Oghren, we have to go.” He just nodded bleakly, not once looking to her, and Eideann gently moved beyond him towards the door. “Alistair, darkspawn,” she said and he was at her side in a moment, nodding. 

“Got it,” he said softly, and stepped out first. 

“This was a holy place,” Shale said quietly, sadly. “Do I remember? I…am not sure…” Eideann glanced back, and then sighed, stepped out into the final terrace.

It was only a pair of ogres there, far enough from one another that they had the chance to finish one before the other struck. 

Maker, she was tired, emotionally and physically, dread coursing through her blood and that impending heavy sensation of the taint pressing against her.

“I wish we were in Ostagar,” Alistair muttered over the bodies of the dead ogres, and Eideann could not even nod or laugh, and neither could he. 

Hespith’s story was not done, it seemed, because she finally began to explain in earnest, voice carrying as it did before, echoing through the corridors. It was a story that should never be told.

“She became obsessed,” Hespith’s voice said. “That is the word, but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil.” Branka. And there was betrayal in Hespith’s voice as she finally purged the truth from her soul, divulged it to be rid of it. “We tried to escape, but they found us. They took us all. Turned us.” Eideann turned to follow her voice, which was retreating into the depths of Bownammar down across from the broken bridge. They took that tunnel, where more fleshy growths protruded from the stone. “The men they killed. They’re merciful. But the women they want.” Eideann felt her blood cold in her veins, and listened, unable to stop, unable to escape, swords gripped tight in her hands. Something splashed beneath her feet, some liquids of juices, reds and pinks. Blood. She bit her tongue. “They want to touch, to mold, to change until you are filled with them.”

It suddenly occurred to Eideann why, in so many years of history and with the tradition of the Calling at the end of Warden life, that there were not many women in the Grey Wardens. There were a handful here and there, smattered throughout history,, but this…this was why. 

The darkspawn killed men or made them ghouls. Women they wanted. Eideann felt the bile in the back of her throat. 

But Hespith was not done.

“They took Laryn. They made her _eat_ the others. Our friends. She tore off her husband’s face and drank his blood. And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned grey. And she _smelled_ like them. They remade her in their image. Then _she_ made more of _them_.” Her voice was low now, horrified, echoing back down the tunnel towards them. Eideann was walking in a small pool of blood and flesh, and she wanted to stop, to run, but could not. She had to stand her ground. She had to keep going. She was the Warden-Commander, and this…she needed to know what this was. She needed to know it.

It came in a sinister, sickening whisper, the answer to all her last questions, compounding a thousand fears into one horrific monstrosity that had once been Layrn.

“Broodmother.”

Laryn was there, a giant creature now tainted and twisted, with too many breasts and tentacles and a swaying, twisting form that rose high towards the ceiling. She was bloated and filled the entire cavern, sitting in the epicenter of the blood and flesh as if she were a spider and that her web.

Eideann’s heart stopped. She jumped. She stepped back, and fear flooded her. She froze. She could not do anything else. 

And Laryn roared, gaping maw all teeth. And grinned. 

If not for Alistair, it would have cost her her life, but he pushed her in, out of the way of the tentacles that came rising up through the floor to swipe at them. They both toppled into the chamber, splattering into the filth and the blood and the gore, and Eideann felt panic rising. Alistair was on his feet in an instant, and Eideann moved, giving a cry of anguish and fear and despair, and she rammed her swords at anything nearby that moved. 

It was a tentacle at first, which swung at her, and she hacked at it until it toppled, cut from the broodmother’s form to lie twitching. Laryn roared.

And the darkspawn came to her defense, flooding the room, genlocks mostly, growling and grunting and setting on them with swords. Angus charged past her, ripping the throat from a genlock before she even knew it was there. Things were moving too quickly. It was too much.

Shale smashed its way into the chamber, tearing at the fleshy tentacles and the creature that had been Laryn roared again, twisting and squirming and battling back. Eideann found herself knocked closer, and she stood, staring up at the height of Laryn towering over her, and then panicked. Her blades found the creature’s body again and again, drawing blood and splattering it across Eideann’s face and body until she was almost covered in it. She struck, because she could do nothing else, and Laryn roared. And then, finally drawing on some sense, she hauled herself up onto the flesh of Laryn’s back and hacked at where he spine would meet her head, down and down over and over.

 _Kill it!_ It was all she could think.

And at last her blades sank through bone, and Eideann was thrown clear, landing hard on the fleshy cavern floor and crying out in pain as it winded her a little. And Laryn slumped, eyes transfixed. Alistair slew the final darkspawn, which roared and charged at them. And then it was done. Eideann forced herself to breath, feeling tears hot and heavy on her face, and then she hauled herself over and was violently sick onto the ground, panting and trying to breathe.

And oh Maker, she could not. There was the reason. There it was, plain as day. 

New darkspawn, the ogres, never before seen until recently, coinciding with when the Qunari moved south. Genlocks, short and stocky as the dwarves, here in multitude because this was their mother. Shrieks that slipped silently through the halls, that had found them in the Brecilian Forest with ease and that she had rarely seen since, birthed from elves that survived the transformation. Hurlocks with their human builds, sharp eyes and dangerous magic from her own kind; those would be what hers would look like.

She was sick again, hearing it splatter into the pool of blood and filth on the floor about her and hating it. All of it. 

_I will never die in the Deep Roads!_

She forced herself up, noticing Alistair bent over her worriedly. Eideann wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and then looked up, finally catching sight of Hespith watching her. Oghren was standing, staring up at her as well, tears streaming down his cheeks and snot in his mustache. And Hespith nodded, her silver-tainted eyes fixing on Eideann’s blue.

“That’s where they come from,” she said quietly. “That’s why they hate us. That’s why the need us. That’s why they take us. That’s why they feed us.” There was a bitterness there, a betrayal that cut like a knife. Eideann recognized it in herself and swallowed hard. “But the true abomination,” Hespith said, her eyes wandering to the butchered Laryn, “is not that it happened, but that it was allowed.” She looked away, her voice a whisper. “Branka, my love,” she said quietly, shaking her head. And then she looked up again to Eideann. “I am not dying of corruption, friends, but something far worse: betrayal.” And then she stepped back, molding into the darkness of the depths of the Dead Trenches. Oghren gave a stifled cry, stepping forward.

“Wait! Hespith!” but she was gone. Eideann was still kneeling in the pool of gore, and she felt another wave of vomit, but pushed it back. Her eyes found Alistair’s stinging with tears, and her face was wet.

“Don’t ever let me – ” He shook his head.

“No. I won’t.”

“Promise. You will kill me. Promise!” It echoed around the chamber, a high-pitched scream, and he startled, staring, and then he bent to push his hands into her hair, forcing her to meet his eyes, his sword clattering on the stone where he had dropped it. 

“I swear on my life, Eideann Cousland, I will kill you before this could ever happen.” And she felt the tears spill out and squeezed her eyes shut. He pulled her into his arms, and she could smell the darkspawn blood on his armor, feel it burning her skin where her cheek pressed against the metal, and she did not care. She sobbed in his arms, shaking, unable to move, and he held her. And she realized he had tears in his eyes too, unshed and sparkling at the chaos about them.”

Eideann cried until she couldn’t anymore, and then she finally rose, unable to bear that cavern any longer. She stepped over the tentacles that had curled about the entrance and stared down the tunnel a moment with tired eyes. But she could not sense darkspawn that way, not anymore. Her senses were shot. She looked to Alistair, and he shook his head, and she took that as confirmation there was nothing there.

How long they walked, she could not say. But she did notice that the hourglass had run out again, so she turned it and marked the day. When at last they reached a point where the fleshy growths had disappeared, she sank down into a heap against the walls to rest, and Oghren pushed one of the bottles of his absolutely disgusting ale into her hands. She down the whole thing, unable to stop herself, and it banished the flavor of her mouth and made her mind dizzy and weary. And then she slept, head on Oghren’s shoulder, and his on hers, uncaring about his smell, because there was nothing else to do.

When she woke, he was awake as well, staring blankly across at a small fire Alistair had burning from their small supply of oil. The other Grey Warden was roasting some creature, perhaps a nug, and did not look up at them. He looked tired too. Eideann looked to Oghren, who stared back flatly, and she nodded.

She no longer cared now what Oghren wished. Branka had led her house to this and abandoned them. She was further on, close by now, and had led three hundred men and women to their deaths or worse to find the Anvil of the Void. How many of the darkspawn at Ostagar had come from the Broodmother Laryn? How much of the army that now fed the Blight? Branka had not just betrayed her house. She had betrayed all of Thedas. Branka would answer for that betrayal in blood. 

They cut apart the nug, and Eideann ate her portion, uncaring for the taste. Alistair’s cooking was always a grim affair, and the nug was burned, but she did not care. She ate her whole portion, because she needed to eat something, especially after her performance back in the Broodmother’s cavern. She got it down, and then washed it down with water from her pack, feeling drained despite her nap. 

“Eideann…?” She looked up to Alistair, who gazed at her with his beautiful amber eyes. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “You promised.” He nodded, dousing the fire and rising, covered in blood and gore. She stared a moment, then slowly pushed herself up too. And then she held out a hand for Oghren, who did a similar staring process before finally taking it and rising. 

“Warden,” he began, but then shook his head, and she nodded.

“Let’s press on away from this place. Branka still has to be here, somewhere ahead.” 

They reached a branch of the Deep Roads that was old and dark. There was no lava to light the way there, only lyrium, which was strangely soothing after so much fire. Eideann glanced down the two paths, and then nodded to the one that ran eastward.

“What do you think is down that way?” she asked quietly, and Alistair shrugged.

“If you are right about being near Ostagar, that’s probably the way to Gwaren,” he said softly, and she realized he was right. It felt like a silly question to ask. She remembered her map then and pulled it out to sketch out the roads for future use, marking the way to Gwaren. She was not sure how accurate it was, but if she had some way to trace them, she could tell where the darkspawn might strike, and that was useful. Plus, if they lived through this, they could use such maps later. They should have some already. Maker, between Sophia Dryden’s rebellion and the massacre at Ostagar, she felt like all the lore of the Wardens had been lost and she was having to collect it all up again from scratch. 

The Wardens must know about Broodmothers. Surely. 

They took the western path, which veered further south down towards the Korcari Wilds. Eideann felt the halls begin to grow warmer, and focused on that, trying to work out what it was, intrigued. She did not work out what it was until the lyrium veins faded away and the glow of a lit cavern was somewhere up ahead. And even then she had only just come across it when they emerged at last from the path into the cavern and saw the lava bubbling deep in the depths below them, a massive lake like Orzammar had.

“The Anvil of the Void is near,” Shale said in the same odd tone it had been using since reaching Orzammar. “I can feel it.” Oghren made a musing noise in reply.

“If Branka is anywhere,” Oghren said softly, “this has to be it. She will not be unprepared.” He sounded ready for war too now, and Eideann was glad of that. Oghren would not excuse such cruelty any more than she would.

And he was right. 

She was only a short way ahead of the Dead Trenches, and that only implicated her more. She stood atop a rock formation, watching them as they approached. As they entered, great slabs of rock slid over, blocking the entrance, and Branka smiled with a sense of satisfaction. They were spring-loaded, set to shut when someone triggered the panel she had rigged into the floor. Eideann had been too tired to even notice. She ushered them off the panel, but the mechanism did not reset, and even Shale pulling did no good. Branka was a master smith, capable of far more technological masterpieces than they were. Eideann grimaced.

“Let me be blunt with you,” Branka called down at them, her voice flat and eyes cold. “After all this time, my tolerance for social graces is fairly limited. That doesn’t bother you, I hope.” Eideann narrowed her eyes, drawing her blades, and staring the woman down.

“Shave my back and call me an elf!” Oghren cried. Of course that was him. No one else would ever say such things. “Branka? By the Stone, I barely recognized you!” But he was not smiling.

“Oghren,” Branka said with distaste. “It figures you’d eventually find your way here. Hopefully you can find your way back more easily.” Eideann glared as Oghren sank a little beside her. Branka’s gaze slipped to her. “And how shall I address you? Hired sword of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or just the only one who didn’t mine Oghren’s ale-breath?”

“Be respectful, woman!” Oghren said grimly. “You’re talking to a Grey Warden!” Branka just smiled.

“Ah, so an important errand boy then,” she sniffed, looking sidelong at them and surveying them with a calculating gaze. Her eyes went from Eideann to Oghren, to Alistair to Shale, and then back to Eideann. “I suppose something serious has happened. Is Endrin dead?” Eideann blinked and Branka smiled ever so slightly. “That seems most likely. He was on the old and wheezy side.” 

“He is dead, yes,” Eideann said coolly. “And the Assembly is deadlocked.” 

“Ah.” Branka crossed her arms, shaking her head. “A King won’t defeat a Blight,” she snapped. “We’ve had forty generations of kings and lost _everything_. I don’t care if the Assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne.” Eideann did not like admitting she partially agreed with that statement herself. Instead, she drew a deep breath, ripples of anger echoing through her. And disgust. Branka paced across the rock formation, waving her hands. “Our protector, our great invention, the thing that once made our armies the envy of the world, is lost to the very darkspawn it should be fighting!” she said angrily. “The Anvil of the Void, the means by which the ancients forged their army of golems and held off the first Archdemon ever to rise, it’s _here_. So close I can taste it!” 

“But of course,” Eideann said softly, in her dangerous and dark tone, “there is a catch.” Branka sneered down at her.

“It lies on the other side of a gauntlet designed by Caridin himself,” she said sharply. “My people and I have given body and soul to unlocking its secrets.” Eideann felt another ripple of anger and forced it down, away. “ _This_ is what’s important. This has lasting meaning. If I succeed, the dwarven people benefit. Kings, politics…all that is transitory.” 

It _was_ transitory. But it did not excuse selling Thedas to the Blight to gain the means to fight a Blight. Such circular logic was foolish and arrogant, and she had sacrificed three hundred lives to it. Eideann knew better than anyone that politics was a tool, not an end, as it was here and now. Of course it was transitory, but transitory did not mean it did not matter, and was not important. 

Branka stopped pacing and stared at her, eyes cold and dark. “I’ve given up everything and would sacrifice anything to get the Anvil of the Void,” she spat. Eideann felt the anger rise within her, mind thinking of Laryn, of Hespith, of those three hundred, thinking of Ostagar and the costs in blood that was paid to get Branka no further than she stood now. Caridin had made a gauntlet so strong, she could not break it. She had thrown what was left of her people at those traps, and not a one could break them. And when she ran out of soldiers, she threw Laryn’s darkspawn children at it, let them rage against the gauntlet, funneled them into it. And still nothing. And Eideann and Alistair and Oghren and Shale were to be next. 

Angus growled low in his throat at her feet and Eideann’s eyes narrowed. 

“You are obsessed,” Eideann said frankly. “What you have done will never balance the scales when this is weighed. You have chosen to destroy everything the dwarves are, everything _we_ are in pursuit if a dream. Caridin sealed the Anvil away for a reason, and to chase it does not make you a hero or a savior, it makes you a monster.” Branka scoffed, turning her face away, waving such arguments aside.

“What has this place done to you?!” Oghren demanded. “I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for one minute and see her brilliance!” Branka’s eyes were like flint as she stared him into submission.

“I _am_ your Paragon,” she said coldly, quietly, and he shook his head and turned his face away. “There is only one way out, Wardens. Forward. Through Caridin’s maze and out to where the Anvil waits.”

Eideann stared at her a moment, then tore her eyes away, storming down the tunnel towards the gauntlet.

“What are you doing?” Alistair said sharply, and Eideann shook her head.

“Proving her wrong,” she spat. “And ending this.” 

The tunnel led to a pit filled with the empty tents and slain corpses of the last of House Branka. And among them too were darkspawn, some of Laryn’s brood and others from other Broodmothers somewhere else, distant. Branka watched them, silent eyes considering, as Eideann cut through the remaining living darkspawn with anger fueling her blades, and Alistair’s smite pummelled the darkspawn emissaries into the earth until Eideann’s blade took their lives with efficiency. 

“I needed people to test Caridin’s traps,” Branka’s voice called, echoing in the high cavern. “There is no way to break through except by trial and error. I sent them in. They were all mine, pledged to be my house, and they didn’t want to help. They tried to leave me, even my Hespith.” Eideann glanced to Oghren who looked stony and angry. “But even she couldn’t understand that when you reach for greatness, there are sacrifices. As many sacrifices as are needed.” And suddenly Eideann was thinking of Arl Howe, of that mentality playing out above on the surface. She thought of Loghain, leaving Cailin to die at Ostagar, digging a hole in the Tower of Ishal to let the darkspawn through. She thought of Zathrien’s curse, costing thousands of lives to feed a vengeance that he swore would last forever. She thought of Uldred in the Circle Tower, determined to twist mages to his purpose, to kill any Templars that got in his way as he reached for ever more power. She thought of Avernus sacrificing the Grey Wardens of Soldier’s Peak to strengthen the power of tainted blood. And she felt like she were drowning in the darkness of the world. 

“We will never be like that,” Alistair said quietly, softly, a bright light amidst the darkness beside her, and she nodded. He was right.

“We will never be like that,” she agreed. She remembered that evening long ago sitting by Duncan in the Bannorn, hair cut ragged and short with a sword and strands still blowing in the wind. Her words came back to her, whispered from the past.

 _An oath to protect means nothing if you won’t even save those you can. If you want to take the stance that you will do anything to survive, that you live to battle the Blight, how are you any better than darkspawn?_

Grey Wardens do what they must to battle the Blights. They must weigh the needs of the many against the needs of the few. No doubt some Grey Wardens believed that meant that all sacrifices could be justified to stop the Blights, but no. That was not true. It was not who Eideann was. And it was not who Alistair was. 

_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant_ would never mean giving up the light. For shadows needed light to exist. It was the reason they were the Grey Wardens. They could not stray into the darkness, and nor could they stand in the light. They were the center, the balance between sacrifice and protection, duty and necessity. They were the scales on which the darkness of mankind was weighed against its goodness. 

That balance could never be lost.

There was no balance here, just as there had been no balance in the Brecilian Forest, no balance in the Circle Tower, no balance at Ostagar. 

_We will never be like that,_ she swore to herself. _Wardens exist to protect and defend. The sacrifices we pay for that are our own alone to bear._

She cut through the last of the darkspawn in her way and stopped before a doorway that stood open. Dead dwarves lay in the room, surrounded by golems. Eideann shook her head.

“Something sets them off,” she warned, recalling Ortan Thaig. She had no desire to go up against golems. 

She stepped into the room, and the first cracked. Shale immediately came forward, facing it down. Eideann looked about as a green haze filled the room, making her cough. Angus was hacking something up too. Alistair and Oghren were coughing as much as she. There were switches, however, further in, and since Shale was busy with the golem, Eideann made a dash for them, pointing the other out to Alistair who immediately went for them. 

With the switches thrown, the gas stopped coming, and started to filter away out of the door. She was still coughing, but not nearly so much, and now their only concern was the golem Shale was fighting. They battered at one another, exchanging blows, but once again Shale’s lightning crystals proved their worth, and the golem collapsed backwards, stilled by the crackling lightning that arced through its body. 

They all stilled as it fell, but the other golems stayed prone, and Eideann carefully backed towards the door. When it showed no signs of waking, she finally hurried out, picking up the pace. She would reach that Anvil before Branka and then the Paragon would bear the cost of sacrifices in blood. 

The second room was lined with carefully placed traps, which Eideann carefully plotted out. Triggered traps would wake more golems, which lined the corridors. 

This did happen only once, but this time they were ready. Shale went straight for one, while Alistair, Oghren, and Eideann flanked the other and attacked together. Their blades met the cracks in the stone of the golem’s body until at last something made purchase, and the glowing eyes dimmed and the golem staggered back and toppled. 

“There is a weakness then,” Eideann said pointedly, and Oghren and Alistair nodded. 

“Going to make a mess of our swords, though,” Alistair said, eyeing up his Warden blade.

“Best we don’t wake any others then,” Eideann replied, and led the way through the rest of the room with a careful attention to the remaining traps. 

None of Branka’s household had made it to the third room, which was a great cavern that held a strange, rotating idol. As they approached, a wave of something like the energy in lyrium burst free, materializing into several spirits that turned to attack. 

“What in the Void is this?” Alistair demanded, grimacing as the spirit came at him with a sword that was anything but ethereal. “Did the dwarves have the ability to bind spirits? Is this like runes?”

“They came from those!” Eideann said pointing with her sword as she battled another of the spirits. There were four glowing anvils set in a circle about the rotating idol. Eideann beat back the spirit and then broke into a run, avoiding a slash and heading for the anvil. When she touched it, something burned against her hand, and she gave a sharp hiss of pain, and then the spirits vanished, the idol rotated, and blood dripped from the idol’s face. Eideann stared, then blinked.

“Blood magic,” Alistair said with a grimace. Eideann glanced to him, swords at the ready in case there was more.

“Any ideas?”

“Do the same thing again,” Alistair said, and so they did. 

This time they each took an anvil, and when the spirits arrived, they moved as one. The idol faces began to cry tears of blood. But the one that already had stopped, and when the next round appeared, no spirit came out on that side at all. 

And so they ended it that way, and Eideann stared at the idol a moment, grimacing.

“So the dwarves could use blood magic?” she asked warily.

“The dwarves could use any magic?” Alistair shot back, equally confused. “Perhaps someone helped?”

“Not likely,” Oghren muttered. “Maybe lyrium? There was a lot that was lost when the empire fell.” 

“Perhaps,” Eideann said skeptically. After all, cultures could forget many things, but forgetting the ability to use any sort of magic at all. Eideann glanced back to Shale. If there was blood magic involved in the binding of spirits to the idol for this trap, perhaps there was blood magic involved in more than that. However the Anvil of the Void worked, imbuing spirits in stone certainly sounded very similar to blood magic. She had a horrible feeling about everything ahead.

They crossed the chamber towards the final hall, and there found a door, wide open and waiting, opening up into a chamber full of golems, lyrium crystals, and lava-falls. Eideann stepped in, considering the golems, some stone like Shale and one in the center of wrought metal, hollow and sturdy and welded into form. 

And then, one by one, they began to move, to stand up, and finally the center one stretched wide its arms and took a single step forward. And then it spoke.

“Shale of House Cadash. It has been a long time, my friend.” It turned to look at the others then, and its metallic mouth split in a wide smile. “Welcome friends, my name is Caridin, Paragon of Orzammar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY:
> 
> Eideann, Oghren, Alistair, and Shale follow the tunnels through Bownammar, all the time hearing the story of the capture and torture of Branka's household as told by Oghren's cousin Hespith. The story primarily focuses on Laryn and Hespith, particularly Laryn who has been corrupted into a Broodmother by the darkspawn and whose offspring now adds to the armies of the Blight. Eideann and the others encounter Laryn further within the Dead Trenches, and Laryn is killed by the protagonists. Hespith tells them Branka allowed the corruption to happen and betrayed them to the darkspawn. Eideann, scared she may one day be a Broodmother herself because of the darkspawn taint, makes Alistair swear to end her life before such a thing can happen. He agrees, and the group continues on, eager to get away.
> 
> The group determines that they are somewhere in the location of Ostagar and the the Anvil of the Void lies further south beneath the Korcari Wilds. Upon reaching the location, they finally find Branka. She has been attempting to reach the Anvil of the Void which is protected by a gauntlet made by the Paragon Caridin. Branka has sacrificed her entire house, and a number of darkspawn trying to break through the gauntlet to no avail. Eideann, angry at the loss of life and the lasting repercussions for not only the dwarves but the people on the surface suffering the Blight, remembers the conversation she had with Duncan on the way to Ostagar from Highever about Wardens battling the Blight no matter the cost. She realizes Grey Wardens are the balance, and swears to protect and defend and to sacrifice herself rather than others. She decides to make Branka pay for all those harmed from her efforts to gain the Anvil. Eideann leads the others through Caridin's gauntlet, where they wonder if the dwarves could once manipulate blood magic. With this troubling thought fresh in their minds, the group arrives at the Anvil of the Void where they discover a metal golem who greets Shale and introduces himself as Caridin.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shayle of House Cadash learns of her origins from Caridin; Eideann decides to stand up for what is right and must fight Branka; Eideann finally reveals her plans to Alistair for the dwarven king; Eideann convinces Alistair to leave her behind while she goes deeper into the Deep Roads following a hunch; Shayle and Eideann both get to go home in the company of some of the Legion of the Dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

“Caridin?” Eideann’s voice was incredulous. She stared at the metal golem before them with wary eyes. “As in _the_ Caridin? Caridin’s Cross?” How would such a thing even be possible. If it was true, if that really was the Paragon Caridin, had he always been a golem? Had the dwarves made a golem a Paragon?

And then she thought of Shale, and glanced back to see the smaller, stone golem staring, runes glowing a soft white amidst the purple crystals. 

“You…know my name,” the golem said quietly. “Is it you that forged me then? Is it you that gave me my name?” Eideann’s eyes looked back to Caridin, and a tinny sigh echoed through the metal golem. 

“You have forgotten then?” the Paragon said quietly. “It has been so long. I made you into the golem you are now, Shayle, but before that you were a dwarf…just as I was. The finest warrior to serve King Valtor, and the only woman to volunteer.” Eideann stared a moment, letting that sink in, and then she quietly looked beyond the golems to the Anvil of the Void, standing on a promontory overlooking the lava pool far below. It glowed with the power of lyrium, and all around it the air seemed to sing.

And she knew then what they had done, how the golems had been made. If the dwarves had no magic, they had once been able to bind spirits to stone and to metal. A golem was a spirit trapped as any other. And there was that word that concerned her: volunteered. That implied there were many creatures that did not.

She thought of the control rod, broken within her pack, and felt sick at what that truly was: the slaver’s whip to direct the souls of men, locked within the stone and metal forms and thrown against the armies of the Blight.

And Shale had been one of those warriors. Her companion was almost a thousand years old, and had been battling the darkspawn since time immemorial. Where once a strong-willed woman warrior had wielded weapons in defense of Orzammar, now she wielded stone and lightning in defense of so much more.

For Shale it was too much, and she could not yet remember. 

“The only woman? A dwarf?” the golem demanded, confused and drawing back a little. Caridin bent his metal head slightly.

“I laid you on the Anvil of the Void, here in this very room, and put you into the form you now possess.” And her other form? Long gone. Given honors? Or cast aside? Here…of all places…

“The Anvil of the Void,” Shale said softly. “That is what we seek.” Caridin’s empty gaze, merely slits in armor that vanished into darkness, turned on Alistair and Eideann and Oghren then, and he shifted against the stone promontory. 

“If you seek the Anvil then you must care about my story, or be doomed to re-live it.”

“Tell me,” Eideann said simply, sheathing her swords and nodding. It was time for the truth.

“Though I made many things in my time, I rose to fame based on a single item: the Anvil of the Void,” Caridin told them, voice echoing within the hollow form of the golem he now was. “As an army, my golems were invincible, but I told no one the cost. No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make my golems live, I had to take their lives from elsewhere.” Flesh and blood sacrificed for lyrium and stone. 

“Blood magic,” Alistair said behind her, and Eideann nodded.

“A dangerous road.”

“The darkspawn were pressing in,” Caridin continued, glancing back to Shale now. “Originally I only took volunteers, the bravest of souls, willing to trade their very lives for the chance to defend their homeland. But King Valtor became greedy. He began to force men… casteless and criminals, his political enemies…all of them were to be given to the Anvil. It took feeling the hammer’s blow myself to realize the height of my crimes.” There were so many golems once, not least of which those that were gathered there, all of them bound to the control rod save those gathered with Caridin himself. Even Shale had once been bound. An army of slaves stripped of everything they were and bound to an eternity to battle the Blights. It was this that Branka had given everything to find. It was this that had led to the devastation at her hands. 

And part of Eideann was no longer surprised by such things. And that worried her a little. No one should be used to the cruelty, the evil that lay within mortal souls.

“What now?” she asked Caridin, her voice firm. “Do you want revenge?” He had suffered on that Anvil as much as his other creations, and he had been no volunteer. There seemed to be something about dwarven Paragons that made Eideann angry to think of any of them. Once they achieved great power, were raised to the ranks of living gods, they sacrificed thousands to their causes. The dwarves had troubles enough giving birth to new generations. Casteless women gave their bodies to birth new princes and lords and warriors because of such struggles. Any loss of life should be abhorrent. But this…how many bloodthirsty monsters could such a civilization take, she wondered?

“Not revenge,” Caridin replied, looking back to her. “The blow of the hammer opened my eyes. My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but not enough to fashion a control rod. I retained my mind.” He turned back to Shale, who’s glowing eyes were narrowed. “You were among the most loyal, Shale. You remained at my side throughout, and at the end I sent you away out of mercy. We have remained entombed here, and I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil.” He turned his whole being then to consider the Anvil of the Void glimmering cruelly beyond. “Alas, I cannot do it myself. No golem can touch it.”

“No!” It was Branka, finally realizing they had cleared the gauntlet she had thrown them into. She came running up, eyes wild and angry. “The Anvil is _mine_! No one will take it from me!” Caridin’s voice was desperate.

“Shale, you fought to destroy the Anvil once! Do not allow it to fall into unthinking hands again!” he pleaded, and Shale seemed to grow a little, crystals flickering and sparks flying.

“You speak of things I do not remember. You say we fought. Did you use our control rods to command us to do so?” she demanded.

“I destroyed the rods!” Caridin insisted. “Perhaps my apprentices eventually learned to replace the rods. I do not know, but if so, then all they need is the Anvil to make all the slaves they need!” Eideann looked to the thing near the ledge, glowing brightly, hammer laid atop it, and then looked back at Branka, who was panting so hard her armor was rising and falling as she breathed. And then Eideann set her jaw.

They said that Wardens did what they must to end a Blight. Duncan had said it was the first rule to being a Warden, all those months ago, that night in the Bannorn when she had shorn her hair and cast aside the Teryn’s daughter to become something more. Wardens would slay an entire village, wage a war, trick recruits into the death sentence of the taint. All these things and more. 

Eideann thought of Sophia Dryden, of Avernus and his demons. She thought of Duncan’s deal: her life given to save her mother’s, a deal he had never upheld and one that came with a massive cost. Eideann saw it again in the golems, Orzammar’s attempt to sacrifice the few to save the many, and how quickly that had spiraled out of control.

She needed a Paragon to back her, to help decide the King and get the army of dwarves they desperately needed to battle the Blight. With only herself and Alistair against the Archdemon, they could never win. It was him and her alone now.

And because it _was_ him and her alone, she knew what she had to do was right. Alistair and she could never be the ruthless Wardens that the common man feared and distrusted. They chose the hard way of saving the mages in the Circle because it was right, even though Greagoir would had been free to aid them had they simply killed off the remaining. Wynne had said they were meant to serve others, to protect them, and Eideann believed that with all her heart.

That did not mean the murder of children for the easiest army. It did not mean slaughtering cursed men for an ancient vengeance. It meant making the difficult choices to do what was right, not the difficult choices to do what was easy.

And it did not mean binding the souls of people to an eternity of stone to feed a golem army against a Blight. The values that would have accepted those costs had died on the fields of Ostagar. What had survived that battle had been Alistair and Eideann and all they stood for. They would protect and defend Ferelden alone if need be, would fight to protect people, even if meant standing alone against the Archdemon. If they could not balance necessity with morality, they were no better than the darkspawn they fought. 

“Alistair,” she said quietly, and he turned beside her, both of them standing firm against Branka. And Eideann drew her blades.

“I’m with you,” she heard him say beside her. And then she fixed her stare on Branka.

“The Anvil enslaves living souls. It _must_ be destroyed.”

“Thank you, stranger,” Caridin breathed. “Your compassion shames me.”

“Don’t listen!” Branka cried. “He’s been trapped here for a thousand years, stewing in his own madness! Help me claim the Anvil, and you will have an army like you’ve never seen!” Eideann could think of someone else who had been stewing it madness, and they were not made of metal.

Oghren turned to stand with them.

“Branka, you mad, bleeding nug-tail! Does this thing mean so much to you that you can’t even see what you’ve lost to get it?!” he demanded angrily. 

“Look around!” Branka insisted. “Is this what our empire should look like? A crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume?! The Anvil will let us take back our glory!” 

“At what price?” Eideann demanded. “An empire built on the backs of eternal slaves will never be worth saving.”

“So it fights with Caridin?” Shale said quietly, and then shuffled around. “Good. That seems right.” So they stood, arrayed against her. Branka’s face twisted in fury.

“No! You won’t take it! Not while I still live!”

“Branka! Don’t throw your life away for this!” Oghren spat back. He looked to them, desperately, and his eyes red-rimmed from drink and sorrow fixed on Eideann. “Just…give her the blasted thing! She’s confused! Maybe once she calms down, we can talk to her!” he said. Eideann shook her head. This was a woman who in her madness had turned her own lover over to the darkspawn to be fed their kin and birth the horde that Eideann now had to kill. 

“I’m sorry, Oghren,” Eideann said coolly. “That’s not a risk I am willing to take.” 

Branka’s response was predictable. She took up her shield, drawing her mace, and from her belt she drew forth a control rod, glistening crystal shining dully in the lava light. 

“You’re not the only master smith here, Caridin!” she spat. “Golems, obey me! Attack!”

And unlike Shale’s control rod, Branka’s worked, at least on about half of the golems in the chamber, which immediately turned against them, stone fists clashing.

They were bigger than Shale, who had been carved down by Wilhelm to fit through doors better and as a result was at a small disadvantage. But Shale was not the only golem on their side, and so Eideann let the stone warriors battle one another. She set her sights on Branka.

Eideann would later say this much for Oghren: when the time came, he did not falter. He stood his ground the whole time as his wife came at them. Even when Eideann’s sword cut through Branka’s guard and took her head, he did not move, did not change his course. She had beheaded a dwarven Paragon, and he did not blink an eye. 

But how many more had been saved in that moment. 

Caridin’s golems lay shattered and broken, murdered by their fellows almost to a man, and Caridin stared at them. Shale too looked down on them, and Eideann wished golems had more expression, but then she did not need a visual cue to know what they may be feeling at the massacre of their fellows. 

“Another life lost because of my invention,” Caridin lamented. “I wish no mention of it had made it into history.”

“Yeah, you ain’t kidding. Stupid woman,” Oghren hissed, setting aside his battleaxe and turning away from Branka with a bitter look. “Always knew the Anvil would kill her.” But there was loss in his eyes, and conflict, and Eideann knew that later he would shed his tears where no one was left to watch. Three hundred dead, and Branka too, and all of it for what?

“All of this…this is my doing. My legacy. But at least it ends here,” Caridin said quietly. Then he gazed to Eideann. “I thank you for standing with me, stranger. The Anvil waits there for you to shatter it.” But that was not nearly the end of it. She still needed a Paragon to claim a king and give her the support to end the Blight. She doubted very much that Caridin had any intention of leaving the Deep Roads and returning to Orzammar after so much time had passed. Somehow, it felt unnatural for him to do so. Irreverent. Even if he did go back, how would they prove he was who he said he was anyway?

“I need a Paragon’s support to settle an election,” Eideann admitted. Caridin considered them a moment, and then carefully came up with a better solution. 

“For the aid you have given me, I shall put hammer to steel one last time, and give you a crown for the king of your choice,” he said. A crown forged by a master smith, marked with his seal, and proof of his favor. And better yet, her choice, to proclaim whichever king she thought would be best.

They waited then, standing well clear, as Caridin set to work. He melted gold until it was golden and then set it to shape upon the Anvil of the Void itself. Lyrium and sparks set the air abuzz as the crown began to take shape. It was a great monstrosity, jagged and firm, worthy of the kings of Orzammar. It reminded Eideann of the architecture of Bownammar or Caridin’s Cross, and she knew that it would not be lost on the Assembly either. Finally, a solution, and an end.

“There,” Caridin said when he finally approached them, warm metal crown held forth in his hands. Eideann took it carefully, and Caridin considered her. “It is done. Give it to whom you will,” he said. “I do not wish to hear their names, nor anything more of them. I have already lived far beyond my time. I have no place here.” She nodded, and then passed the crown to Alistair to hold. He took it, looking at it in awe, and Eideann glanced to Oghren.

“Time to uphold our end of the bargain,” she said, and he nodded grimly. 

“But where will you go?” Shale asked behind them as Eideann led them up the promontory towards the Anvil. “You don’t mean to…?”

“I do,” Caridin declared darkly. “I lived to ensure that the Anvil was never used again. Now it never shall be. We all must have an end, Shale. May yours be one of your own choosing.” The two golems turned to watch them, and Caridin crossed to stand beside Eideann as Oghren climbed to the Anvil and took up Caridin’s great hammer. He stared at it a moment, then flipped it about so the pointed back was aiming down towards the Anvil. And then he raised it high above his head.

The Anvil shattered in a burst of light and lyrium, breaking through the veins that ran through it. Oghren smashed it twice more, until at last it lay in pieces, and then he dropped the hammer and stormed back down away from it, anger and something else, darker, deep within his eyes. Eideann stared at the broken pieces of the Anvil, then carefully moved to push the largest chunks from the promontory and sending them hurtling into the lava below, until only the hammer remained. Then, taking that up, she turned back to Caridin. 

The Paragon golem was standing watching her near the edge of the promontory. She returned to his side, and he gave her a single nod, then turned away to peer down into the lava. 

“You have my eternal thanks, stranger,” he told her, glowing from the lights below. “Atrast nal tunsha…may you always find your way in the dark.” He did not know who she was, nor what her purpose may be, and yet she had never heard truer words, for darkness was as much a part of her now as light had ever been. 

_Join us in the shadows…_

Paragon Caridin opened his arms wide and then leaned forward, and just like that he was gone, toppled into the lava. Eideann stared at where the Paragon had fallen, and then at the hammer in her hands.

“Atrast nul tunsha,” she murmured, and slowly let the hammer slip from her hands too into the lava below.

Alistair softly called to her. He stood down before a great stone monument which bore a stone golem. Shale stood before it as well, and Eideann exchanged looks with Oghren before they crossed to join the two before the monument. 

The writing on the stone was dwarven, and Eideann had no idea what it said. But Oghren did, and he considered it with tired eyes.

“Names,” he finally said. “A long list of dwarves. Err…hold on…” He peered at the stone carvings a moment, then read the next aloud. “We honor those who have made this sacrifice.; let their names be remembered.” He looked back to Eideann. “Fart me a lullaby! It’s a memorial…of all the dwarves who became golems! Has to be!” Eideann looked back at it, then shrugged her pack from her shoulder and pulled her paper and charcoal out. She carefully set about making a rubbing, preserving forever the tablet names. 

“We will see this is remembered,” Eideann said quietly, when she was finally done, and she rolled the rubbings up and stowed them carefully in her pack.

And when that was done the whole thing sank onto her like a weight, all the damage done. An ancient artifact lay in pieces, melting into lava. Not one but two of the dwarven Paragons lay dead, as well as three hundred members of a Paragon’s house. And in Alistair’s hands a crown that could finally force the dwarves to honor their ancient treaty to battle the Blight. 

“That pretty much beat the sod out of how I imagined it,” Oghren muttered, and Eideann was inclined to agree. 

Shale was staring at the monument looking a little lost and confused, and Eideann looked to her quietly.

“Is your name on this list?” she asked the golem, and Shale shook her head.

“I do not know. But it must be.” 

“Are you alright?” Shale turned to her, staring, and then drew a breath. 

“I have watched a lot of humans in my time,” she said. “It should be aware that I have decided that it is…not much like any of them.” Eideann smiled slightly.

“That could be good or bad,” she replied. 

“Good, of course,” Shale insisted. “It doesn’t _want_ to have anything in common with those other substandard creatures, does it?” Eideann laughed, and Maker, after all this, it felt good. “Surely it must come from some superior lineage, yes? Some breed of flesh creature that has decided to elevate its genetic stock above its natural shortcomings?” Eideann gave the golem a shake of head, chuckling and drawing a deep breath.

“There’s a back-handed complement in there somewhere…” she smiled.

“Nonsense. It can imagine my surprise discovering such a thing was possible from a creature so…soft…but there it is.” Eideann nodded, and Shale sniffed. “I would appreciate it,” the golem added, “if it didn’t spread around that I said anything. Humans might start to get the wrong idea. They might start thinking their race is not completely hopeless.”

“And we wouldn’t want _that_ ,” Eideann added conspiratorially. Shale agreed sagely.

“Indeed. Can it imagine the horror?” Eideann gave a soft laugh again, then sighed. If rocks could smile, Shale probably would have been. Eideann looked then to her hourglass calendar and considered it. Two weeks. Zevran had given them a little under a month. Eideann considered it a moment. Factoring in the time it had taken to get there via Ortan Thaig and the diminished darkspawn presence in the Deep Roads as a result of that endeavor, they may still make it back in time.

“Shale of House Cadash.” Eideann looked up and Shale was staring at the wall again. She had found her name in the list, and reached to run stone fingers over the tablet. Oghren glanced at it, then grinned.

“With a y,” he said. “Shayle.”

“Was that who I once was?” the golem mused. “I find this difficult to believe.” Eideann let the hourglass drop, still not run out yet so no need to change the date, and considered the golem. 

“The name cannot be a coincidence,” she said softly. Shayle looked to her.

“I simply…cannot remember,” the golem admitted. A thousand years of memories was missing. “But if I was this Shayle of House Cadash as Caridin said, there must be some evidence of my existence remaining. I must find it.” Angus gave a bark, and Eideann glanced to the dog a moment before licking her lips.

“Perhaps there are records in Orzammar?” she asked. Shayle was quiet a moment, then sighed.

“There is another way,” the golem finally admitted, and Eideann blinked, waiting for an explanation. “Since arriving here, things have seemed…familiar. What Caridin said, it has allowed me to remember one thing: I believe I know where Cadash Thaig is.” It was Eideann’s turn to think on that, carefully, and then she wet her lips again and reached into her bag, pulling out the charcoal map she had been drawing.

“Show me.”

Shayle pointed to the battered paper, and Eideann considered it a moment. East of Ortan Thaig, not far from the route they had taken on the way south. Maybe…maybe…

“Alistair.” He looked up and Eideann gave him a simple look. “Take that crown back to Orzammar. Oghren will go with you.”

“What?” Alistair’s eyes were narrow. “What about you?”

“I have some unfinished business.”

“No. No!” Alistair shook his head. “I am not leaving you in the Deep Roads! Anyway, aren’t we on a bit of a tight schedule?” 

“That’s why you’re going,” Eideann said simply. “You need to get back and stop Zevran before he makes good on that arrangement.” Alistair stared.

“You’re serious. After all this you honestly expect me to just let you go wandering off into the Deep Roads with all of the horrible things we have just been through to get here?!” Eideann crossed her arms, shaking her head.

“Warden-Constable, I am ordering you back.”

“Now you pull this,” he spat angrily. “Eideann, you will get yourself killed out there. I can’t just leave you!” 

“And I can’t go yet. But I also cannot do what I need to do and still make it back in time to stop Zevran.” She nodded to the crown. “Take that to him. I will be back soon.”

“What is so damn important?”

“Cadash Thaig.” Alistair stared at her. Then he glanced to Shayle and then back to Eideann.

“What?! Some thaig in the middle of nowhere and you want to go off now?!” 

“I have to.” She made a mark on the map where Shayle had pointed out the location, then passed it to him grimly. “Look where it is.”

“Where?” he demanded.

“East of Ortan Thaig?”

“And?” Alistair shoved the map back at her, so she gave him a glare and held it out again. 

“Caridin’s Cross is alongside Lake Calenhad. Ortan Thaig is northeast of that in the vicinity of West Hills. And east of West Hills is what, Alistair?” It took him a moment, and then he realized what she was getting at. This was not just about Shayle’s memories.

“Maker’s breath, that’s Soldier’s Peak.” 

“Yes. Cadash Thaig is under Soldier’s Peak. There are surface exits all over the Coastlands. The place is a maze of mountains and hills and caves. And if there are exits from Cadash Thaig into Soldier’s Peak, we need to know. And let’s be honest, given we’re Wardens and that’s a Warden base, why wouldn’t there be?”

“And if there is?” he asked grimly, a little more convinced. “Eideann you can’t clear a Thaig alone.”

“I won’t be alone. Shayle is coming too, and Angus. And we will be only a few days behind you. Stall the Assembly until we can name a King.” Alistair was silent then, and finally fixed her with a look that spoke of his unhappiness at the thought.

“Who will you pick?” he asked quietly. Eideann did not answer at first. And then she motioned for him to follow her, and they walked away from Oghren and Shale and Angus and back up the promontory for a bit of privacy.

“If it comes to it, you need to choose Bhelen.”

“What?!” he sighed, arms tight about the crown. “Why did we spend all that time doing work for Harrowmont - !?”

“We did not do anything for Harrowmont,” Eideann said sharply, earning a look of surprise and alarm. “We did everything for ourselves. We fought in the arena to win the favor of the ancestors for our cause, not Harrowmont’s, to gain favor with the nobility and the warrior castes. Zevran killed Jarvia and disabled the Carta to win the loyalty of the lower classes. And this Paragon business was done to make us the kingmakers. We need an army to fight the Blight.”

“Why him? He killed his own family for power!” Alistair said back. “He’s as bad as Loghain, if not worse!” 

“He is a despicable man, ruthless and cruel, and willing to kill to get his way,” Eideann admitted, but then shook her head. “But his way is the end of traditionalism. Harrowmont brings us the army of warriors and nobles, and nothing else. Bhelen will summon even the casteless to our side, and a bigger army is better. Those casteless may make all the difference, and when they are done battling the Blight on the surface, they will be free again to battle the darkspawn in the depths. And no one can make them live as criminals because they have no other choice.” Alistair sighed, his eyes narrow.

“I don’t trust him,” he said, and Eideann sighed in return.

“Neither do I. But I don’t trust Harrowmont either.” She shook her head. “We worked against Bhelen all this time because we had to prove the Grey Wardens do not answer to him. And when we crown him, it will be our choice then, not as his minions but as his kingmakers. Neither of them is a man of honor, bound to do what must be done. They have both waited while we begged for them to honor this treaty. They have both watched from the sidelines rather than stand for what is right. We should trust neither of them. But if we need a dwarven king, and we cannot trust either, we can at least make the change that best suits our needs, the needs of the dwarven people, and that gives us the leverage to command they honor that treaty. If they do not honor it, the dwarven people will. Do you see?” 

“Politics,” Alistair muttered, shaking his head. “Maker, I hate politics.” 

“That’s why I am the one doing all of this.”

“Which is why you should be the one to go back,” he said pointedly, “not to Cadash Thaig.”

“We can’t both go,” she said simply, “and I cannot send Oghren alone, because Zevran will not listen to him. But he will hear you, and he will listen. And you must go.”

“Why can’t I go to Cadash Thaig?” he asked her quietly, concern in his amber gaze. She smiled wistfully. 

“Because I am the one that fought in the Provings, and I am the Warden-Commander, Alistair, thanks to you. I have to be the one to make the decision, it cannot be made without me.” He narrowed his eyes and she sighed, crossing her arms. “If I go back, I go back with two dead Paragons and a list of names of golems, but I do not know if I will be sending the dwarves into a trap at Soldier’s Peak. If I go back, as the one who won the Provings, I will be forced to make a decision then. They are waiting. I cannot delay waiting for your news from Cadash Thaig.” Her smile was gone, and she just shook her head. “But I go to Cadash Thaig, and then return, with a list of golem names and the word of a Paragon on my lips, and explanation for why none returned, and news of whether it is safe to send this army to Soldier’s Peak, I can act on all those things.”

Alistair’s eyes were flat as he gazed at her, silent and steady. And then at last he gave a soft laugh and shook his head.

“How does your mind even come up with all of this?” he asked her, sighing. “I will go, of course, you’re too damn persuasive not to now. But, Maker, Eideann, how can you think with so many things in your head at once. You make decisions like it’s nothing, and then all of that comes out. You just rationalize it after the fact, don’t you? Go with your instinct and make up the excuses after.” Eideann smiled slightly.

“It has not led you astray yet,” she said.

“Maker, I hate it when you do that,” he grumbled, but sighed and fixed his gaze on hers, reaching with his free hand to touch her face. “If you are set on doing this, please be careful. Maker watch over you.” Eideann just met his eyes back, smile slipping away and then she licked her lips and leaned forward to kiss him gently, softly, a promise.

“I will. I swear it. I won’t leave you alone to deal with this.” 

But it would be hard. In months she had never not been with him, never not been out of his company, and after their lovemaking under the lyrium veins that had sparkled like magic incarnate, it would be doubly-difficult. She did not want to part from him, and the Deep Roads were frightening enough with him at her side. She did not want to go, and yet she knew she needed to find out if she was sending their Blight army into a trap. She had to learn the truth, and Shayle deserved that chance as well. All she had told him was true. Someone must go, someone Zevran would trust, to put a stop to her contingency plans, and it could not be Shayle. And if she went the vote would be forced. No. She had to go, and come back when all the pieces were in place, and when she could make a decision. And she hated the idea, but it felt certain, felt sure, so there was nothing else for it. When something felt certain in the pit of her stomach, she knew she was often right.

***

“Cadash Thaig! It’s been lost for ages!” the dwarf said with a glint in her blue eyes under the heavy black of her tattoos. On her cheek the brand of the casteless had its place, but the rest was simply markings to cover the rest. Her hair was black, caught back in a few messy pigtails. It was the woman who had let them into the gatehouse at Bownammar. 

After leaving the Anvil of the Void, they had reunited with Kardol’s Legion of the Dead and given him the short version of the events that had transpired. The Legionnaires had been concerned about the darkspawn broodmother, but their eyes showed they had suspected as much and were aware such things occurred. They had pulled back their lines, with Kardol leaving a small contingent to hold the line at Bownammar’s gatehouse in case of further incursions which seemed increasingly unlikely. The horde had finally moved on, no longer down in the depths of the chasm where they had seen the Archdemon, and that meant Bownammar was quiet now, though it boded ill for Thedas at large. 

When Kardol had heard of her plan to split their group and go herself to Cadash Thaig, he had insisted she not go alone, and had provided a handful of his Legion to escort her, led by the woman scout with the axe. She was young but capable and eager for the adventure. The news that golems had once been dwarves seemed to awe her, and she could not stop stealing glances at Shayle every chance she got. 

The rest of the Legion went with Alistair and Oghren, the escort to Orzammar, to learn their new orders and resupply. Eideann was glad that her companions would have the benefit of the Legion to support them. She feared trouble was far more likely to come from Orzammar now than the Deep Roads. Their worst enemies at this point where politicians, and Alistair and Oghren both possessed no real skill in predicting those. They were warriors, true to their own ideals. Politicians played far more subtle games. 

Cadash Thaig was her concern though. They parted close to Caridin’s Cross, where the Deep Roads split and the Legion mentioned there were shorter ways than through Ortan Thaig. Alistair kissed her brow goodbye, made her promise to be careful once again, and set off, leaving her there. And Eideann, aware that time was running short, had turned her back and gone.

Cadash Thaig was a day from there by the roads the Legion knew. They soon found themselves wandering the depths of unfamiliar paths. All the time Shayle grew more apprehensive, eager and also afraid to learn more. 

The young woman Legionnaire in charge of the trio that had accompanied Eideann and Shayle, was called Sigrun, though she did not deign to share her story. Instead she kept her eyes on the goal, and when Eideann told her they were making sure that no darkspawn could surprise the Warden base above, she threw herself into the task, sending her other two scouts ahead to check the perimeter and ferret out any potential break points that would lead to the surface.

Cadash Thaig was something entirely different. They knew they were approaching long before they did, because the air had changed. The sound of dripping water echoed down the Deep Roads towards them, and the lava streams that lit the roads had vanished. It was not lyrium that lit the paths there, but actual daylight, showing they were somewhere near the surface after all. That made Eideann both glad and nervous. 

The first sign they had reached the Thaig was, oddly, the flora. Vines and moss covered everything, and grass and weeds sprouted from the earthen floors, breaking through the stone into the patches of sunlight. Eideann stared at the beauty of it in wonder. Sigrun at her side grinned.

“Those are surface plants,” she said. “So there is definitely a way to the surface. You were right to be worried.” 

Eideann could smell the Coastlands, and felt her heart ache to be above. 

_Not yet. Soon._ She could hardly wait.

Shayle had stopped to examine the ancient buildings that line the entrance to the thaig, lit by the streaming sunlight.

“This is it,” she said simply. “Cadash Thaig.”

“How do you know?” Eideann asked, crossing to join her where the golem was carefully running stone fingers across the ruined wall of a sinking house.

“I do not know,” the golem admitted. “It is an odd thing to experience.” Eideann just nodded, looking about. It was odd for her too. “These ruins are always overrun by vermin. There may be something noteworthy within, however.” So they pressed on. 

Several things about the Thaig became fairly obvious fairly quickly. Firstly, the darkspawn were there, though not in significant numbers, and the Legionnaires proved more than handy in finishing them off. There were a lot of shrieks about, which worried her a little more as they were harder to detect, but most of the darkspawn there were hurlocks. Secondly, the entire place was massive, spanning a distance that held so many houses Eideann was convinced it was larger than the multi-tiered Orzammar. Its moss-coated pavements twisted and turned amidst various sinking and toppling houses as they were slowly swallowed by the soft earth. The earth was soft because they were beneath the Coastlands, where salt-water aquifers were prevalent. Eideann could smell the brine in the air. 

When at last they saw what the sea had done to the Thaig, she stood in her tracks and stared in wonder. Some areas were meant to take advantage of the pools of water that came as a mixed blessing from the snows. Areas that were specifically made to hold water were everywhere, carved pools and ornate fountains choked by moss and vines. But elsewhere the thaig’s streets had been swallowed by massive pools of dark water. Eideann knew the legends of strange sea creatures that spread across the Waking Sea, and did not relish discovering that they were true here where they could be corrupted by darkspawn as well. She gave the waters a wide berth. All the same, the Deep Roads crossed the Waking Sea and into the Free Marches, and so it made sense some of the thaigs would be flooded. She was not surprised, just wary.

But in a different sense, the Thaig was beautiful. With the streaming sunlight and the smell of sea air, the moss and the vines and the tender baby grass that grew between the ruins, there was so much there to bring a sense of peace. If Eideann was honest with herself, she had decided shortly after arriving that Cadash Thaig was the sort of place that should be reclaimed from the darkspawn. If she had to die in the Deep Roads, if that was to be her fate, she made her mind up then and there that she wanted to die in those wide paths surrounded by green and a sinking ancient kingdom, beneath rays of sunlight where things could still be beautiful.

Better still, the creatures of the thaig were no friends to darkspawn. Deepstalkers lived in the soft earth, and Eideann almost found herself laughing when she discovered herself actually fighting side by side with darkspawn to ward off the nasty creatures. Of all the things she had never imagined she would do, fighting next to a Hurlock against a united threat was not one of them. It lasted only a moment, and then they set upon one another, until the darkspawn were dead too and Sigrun stared about. 

“There are entrances,” she reported when her scouts returned, “but we’ve blocked them as best we can.” Eideann nodded, then considered their location.

“Are we anywhere near Soldier’s Peak?” she wondered, and so Sigrun directed her up a small archway to the nearest exit. Eideann climbed out into the sunlight, awed and amazed at how bright it was, especially given the propensity for rain and snow so high up, and peered about. 

She found Soldier’s Peak far in the distance, further east, and sighed a little, glad of that. At least she knew now, and there was also an entrance here. That would prove useful if nothing else. She only looked a moment longer at her beloved homelands, grey clouds hanging overhead and rain threatening. And then she dragged herself back down into the thaig, holding the memory for later, and they set about the rest of their work. At least that was on thing she did not need to worry about. And to see her homeland again…she smiled.

“Shayle, you and I come from the same part of town,” she laughed softly, and the golem just sniffed.

“Superior individuals, I suppose,” was the excuse, and then they carried on. 

Further in the city – Maker, it was massive! – they found what they were looking for. On a platform high above the city, which afforded them a view of the massive network of caverns, flooding and all, there was a monument covered in moss and lichen. Eideann and the Legion brought down an ogre they found there, and then a few shrieks that had appeared out of nowhere. And then they turned to consider the monument. 

It was different from the one in Caridin’s Anvil of the Void promontory. This was cool Coastland stone, carved into a massive paragon that watched over the city, a double-ended hammer in both hands. It had a massive beard, and solemn stone eyes that surveyed the sinking domain amidst a bed of grass. Light streamed down from high above, bathing the Paragon in a glow of natural light. Between its massive legs were stones, standing tall and upright, carved with more dwarven runes. Eideann paused and watched as Shayle approached them in silence, unable to do anything else. 

“This I remember. This has dates,” the golem finally said after gazing at the tablets for a long time. “And names. This is to honor those who volunteered, those who became golems.” The golem shifted to look at the second tablet in the row. “And there is _my_ name, Shayle of House Cadash. Just as Caridin said.” There was surprise, and also sadness in the golem’s tone then, and Eideann swallowed. The Legionnaires stared at it, and Sigrun tilted her head back with a low noise of wonder, then looked back to the golem.

“Thank you, sister,” she finally said, and Shayle looked about, surprised, before slowly stepping back. 

“I remember now. I remember Shayle. That…was me.” Eideann drew close, quiet, and gazed up at the golem with gentle eyes. 

“Welcome home,” she said softly, and Shayle looked to her a moment, then sighed.

“I will need to think on these things I have learned. Perhaps I will speak to it of them soon. For now, let us carry on as we have.” Eideann smiled and nodded, and then motioned to Sigrun and the Legionnaire scouts. 

“What is that way?” she asked, pointing up along another bridge that arched over the city. One of the scouts slipped ahead, and then returned after a few moments with a grin. 

“Deep Roads,” he called. “Our way out.” 

“Did we check the last of the exits?” Eideann asked, and Sigrun nodded.

“No nasty surprises from here, Warden. We promise.” So they headed off then, back into the depths, leaving the massive green sinking city behind. 

Feeling far better now she had her proof that Soldier’s Peak was still safe, and holding close the memory of sea air and Coastland breezes and the memory of green plants, Eideann felt stronger. 

A few more days. Only a few more. And then all this would be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dwarf woman with the Legion of the Dead always fit Sigrun's description, right from the get-go, and given the fact they were so similar, I decided it would be a nice fit to have it just _be_ Sigrun. She's been in the Deep Roads fighting darkspawn for years, and Awakenings happens only a short time after all the events of the Fifth Blight, so it's a good chance to get her involved now. So for those of you who are fond of her, here she is. :)
> 
> Also, from now on, Shale will be Shayle because now she knows her true name. This spelling change is deliberate.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann returns to Orzammar to find a city waiting for a King; Wynne has had a change of heart; Eideann faces down the dwarven Assembly and crowns a king; the group returns to the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> This is the final chapter of Dances in Darkness Book 3: Warden. Chapter 1 of Book 4: Hero will be published soon.

Their final trip through the Deep Roads was done in record time. She emerged into the Orzammar mines, grimy and covered in darkspawn blood and gore, feeling filthier than she had her entire life. But she did climb the final slope with an increased urgency.

There had been no sign of Alistair and Oghren on the way back, so she could only hope they had made it back in time. If they had not…well, she would deal with the political aftermath as necessary. It was the fear of loss she had now.

She had spent the days since they had parted worried for him, especially after her fears that Cadash Thaig would prove a potential ambush for their army had been relieved. She knew he was a capable warrior who could more than handle himself, and Oghren was there with him. She may not trust the dwarf to do most things, but she had every faith he could hold his own against a horde if need be.

So when at last she emerged from the mines, exhausted and drained and covered in everything the Deep Roads could throw at her, with a golem, a dog, and a small troupe of Legionnaires led by the indomitable Sigrun, she looked every inch the resolute Warden she should be. The lava pool that lit the cavern was too bright after so long in the darkness. She longed for the sun, fresh air, and the scent of trees and grass and snow. Anything but heat and smoke and darkspawn decay.

The guards at the door looked surprised to see her, as if they had given her up for dead. When she pushed through them, they made way, watching her go, a little alarmed at her appearance no doubt. She probably had blood in her hair.

Fine. She would prove all the more intimidating in the damn Assembly looking like she had been through an entire horde to reach them.

There was the sound of footsteps, light on the stone, and she looked up to see Zevran peering down at her from the terrace steps. She paused a moment to look at him and then he smiled slightly.

“ _Bella_ , blood makes you look all the more ravishing, do you know?” he grinned. She shook her head.

“Is it too late? Did Alistair reach you in time?” she asked. He gave her a wry look.

“He did. Impeccable timing. He stopped me only a few hours short of my plan. Come, he is waiting.”

Eideann was led up the steps towards the Diamond Quarter. Harrowmont had arranged for the use of a small estate for the Grey Wardens. Apparently such accomodations were traditional when any Grey Wardens visited the city. Since they had not been arranged earlier, Eideann filed it away as a slight against them, and followed Zevran inside.

Within, Morrigan was sitting on a stone seat, peering at a number of books piled on the table.

“Ah, you have returned,” she said simply, hardly even glancing up. “The fool shall be pleased. He has been distraught with worry.” Eideann considered her a moment, then caught sight of Oghren, sitting in the corner before a roaring fire in a stone hearth where some sort of stew – presumably nug – was bubbling away to cook. The dwarf was seated amidst a pile of empty bottles, and Zevran motioned to him with a shake of his head.

“He would not say what had happened,” he said simply.

“Did you have trouble with the nobility pushing for a vote?” Eideann asked the elf, who gave a look that suggested they had been hiding from any prying eyes. “When did Harrowmont give you access to the estate?”

“When we told him we intended to stay within the city,” came a soft lilt and Eideann looked up towards a stairwell of cut stone. Leliana stood at the top, carefully making her way down. She smiled slightly, then looked her over. “You look…delightful,” she laughed, and Eideann grinned.

“Better than a tent?” she suggested, and Leliana nodded, then looked to Shayle.

“We heard about Caridin, Shayle. I am…sorry…”

“Do not be sorry,” Shayle replied curtly, stomping along towards an open space further in and ignoring Leliana after that. Eideann wet her lips, then noticed Wynne emerge at the top of the steps behind the Chantry Sister.

“Ah, Lady Cousland,” Wynne greeted, with none of the characteristic coldness she had displayed before. Eideann smiled slightly to her in a sign of truce, then pulled her pack from her shoulder.

“Maker’s blood, let’s get this done with.”

“Eideann…” She would know that voice anywhere. She looked to see Alistair standing by Wynne, and something within her eased. He was safe. He was fine. He had a few scratches on his cheek courtesy of their fighting in Bownammar, but unlike her he was clean and did not reek of the Deep Roads and death. He gazed at her, amber eyes like gold, seeing straight through to her soul.

“You’re safe,” she breathed, and he smiled ever so slightly.

Wynne looked between them, then smiled as well. Then she and Leliana descended the steps and took her arms in theirs.

“Come, let us clean you up. If you’re addressing the Assembly, they should at least see you at your best.”

“Maker, let them see this. It will make an impression.”

“Absolutely not!” Wynne said simply, pulling her into a chamber near the back of the ground floor. Leliana shut the door, though she failed to stop Angus from squeezing in after them first, and Wynne began to undo the straps of her armor with nimble fingers for once so old. The mage wrinkled her nose. “Your dog is filthy. I can smell him fifty yards off!” she exclaimed, and Leliana began hauling water into a stone tub at the end of the chamber. Eideann eyed it dubiously, then sighed and let them work, since they were so determined.

Even before she had done the business of bathing herself. She did not have handmaidens to dress and undress her. The very idea felt odd and strange. Wynne was just like old Nan had been when she was still too young to do it herself, busying about and making sure she definitely got soap in her eyes. Leliana was doing the work of a proper lady’s maid, and since she had grown up under Lady Cecilie and her mother had been a lady’s maid she was not wholly surprised. But all the same, such treatment made Eideann feel odd after so long doing things her way.

“I could do it myself,” she offered simply, but they ignored her, ushering her into the waters which proved to be lovely and warm, as if they had had them arranged and waiting despite the fact they had no idea when they would arrive.

After the initial strangeness, she eventually just eased into the nonsense of it and let them do as they would. Leliana set about scrubbing her hair so roughly it almost hurt, but when she was done and she washed out the bubbles, Eideann felt ten times lighter. Wynne was scrubbing at her clothes, shaking her head, trying to get rid of whatever had stained the silk this time. Eideann grimaced at the work, murmuring a soft apology for the mess, even though it really was none of her fault.

“Alistair…told us what happened,” Leliana said suddenly, quietly. “He said that you went to Cadash Thaig because you thought it was under Soldier’s Peak.”

“It wasn’t. It is nearby, but not a threat any longer,” Eideann said softly.

“He was a mess when he arrived, sick with worry over you. I do not think he has forgiven you for not letting him go as well,” she smiled softly, and Eideann closed her eyes, heaving a sigh.

“He knew why,” she said softly. She wanted to think of him, of his hands on her. But after Bownammar…no, after Bownammar she could not think of such things without thinking of darkspawn as well and she hated that. She turned her face away to peer at the wall as Leliana began to scrub at her hair again.

“Perhaps…” Eideann glanced up to see Wynne looking to her with an unreadable expression. “Perhaps I was wrong,” she said softly. “There seems to be something special between the two of you.” Eideann sat up a little and Leliana tutted as she had to reach forward to pull her back to get at her hair again. Wynne sighed. “He seems less guarded when in your company, allows himself to relax. And he seems genuinely happy.” Eideann bowed her head slightly.

“If there is some light in the darkness of this world, while we stand to turn back the tide of evil, it is in him,” Eideann said quietly, and Wynne smiled slightly.

“I think I was too harsh in my judgment before,” she said quietly, “and I am sorry.” But Eideann shook her head, earning another noise of displeasure from Leliana.

“You wanted the best for both of us,” she told the mage, who gave a soft chuckle.

“What you have my not last forever,” she advised, finally holding up the silk tunic and then using a spell to pull the water from it and leaving it dry. “Death and duty may part you, but love’s worthiness is not diminished because of that. I should have seen this before.” She held out the tunic and Eideann scrubbed the last of the soap from her hair and body before rising, a thousand times cleaner. “Instead, you learn to cherish every precious moment that you spend together, knowing that it may be the last. And for those of us watching…well, it brings warmth to these old bones to know that something so beautiful can be found in the midst of chaos and strife.” Eideann shrugged into the silk tunic and then belted it at her waist as Leliana helped strap her now clean armor back on. She was hungry, and the scent of the stew from the other room was too appealing.

But there were things to do. As she strapped on her Warden swords, she glanced to Leliana.

“Genitivi’s diary?”

“I have reason to believe that we should make Haven our next stop,” Leliana told her, and then smiled. “And we have enough money for it too.” Eideann nodded then led them all out, Angus damp and no longer reeking in her wake. She would need to find her kaddis and reapply that later. She hoped that this would go as well as she needed it to.

In the living room she tapped Oghren on the shoulder, meeting his reddened eyes with her own like steel.

“I need your help,” she told him, and he rose without a word. Alistair was watching her, and she reached a hand out to brush his arm gently before beckoning him to come with her. “Bring the crown,” she said and he nodded and turned away. Eideann looked to Zevran then. “Knives, concealed, and move into a position in case things take a turn for the worst.”

“I have found something,” Morrigan called, but Eideann shook her head.

“Tell me when this is done. We will return. And…thank you.” Morrigan blinked, then nodded and settled back. “Shayle?” The golem shifted and then stomped across towards the door. Eideann found her pack and pulled forth the rubbings she had taken of the golem registry. She also retrieved the Warden treaties from Leliana and Zevran, and considered her group. “Everyone ready?” At the nods and murmurs, she nodded herself, then turned to the door.

In the Diamond Quarter, nobles were scurrying about like mice, obviously in some sort of hurry, all heading up towards the Assembly. Obviously the word of her return had spread, and those on the streets stopped to stare as she set a determined pace through the terrace towards the Assembly chamber. She did not wait for anyone’s permission to enter. The man guarding the gate tried to move to stop them, but she just pushed past him and at one look at Shayle, Alistair, Oghren, and the ever chipper Zevran he backed down.

The Assembly was in full session, spectators crowded into the corridor. Eideann made her way through them all, impatient now. She schooled that thought away. Her mother had always said that the patient sea could wear away even the stones. She would be the water then to this stone of a problem, and wear it away to nothing under her might.

Alistair stood to her right, holding the crown, and Oghren to the left, eyes set. He had been Branka’s house, a deshyr in his own right technically, and perfectly allowed in those chambers no matter the occasion. Even with Branka’s house decimated, he still remained. For all he had lost, he was there, strong and fierce, and working for her. She had earned his loyalty.

Shayle brought up the rear, stone footsteps ringing behind them announcing their presence.

“Lords of the Assembly!” Steward Bandelor was demanding in a defeated voice. “This argument gets us nowhere!” Across the chamber, under the domed roof, were Harrowmont and Bhelen, standing on either side of the throne as if a vote had been impending and never managed. The deshyr stood, restless and agitated, their staves of office held in their hands, expressions grim.

“Then why these delaying tactics?” Bhelen said sharply, arms crossed. “I call for a vote right now. My father has one living child to assume the Aeducan throne. Who would deny him that?”

_Give me a reason to do so and I shall,_ Eideann thought, and then drew a deep breath and made her way down into the chamber.

“Your father made me swear on his deathbed,” Harrowmont said coolly, “you would not succeed him.”

_One man’s dying wish means nothing to an Archdemon and a Blight._

She paused in the center of the floor, Shayle at her back, and the deshyr were watching her now. But Bhelen and Harrowmont were engaged in their own discussion.

Oghren took care of that. Perhaps it was uncouth of him to speak, but his uncouth nature was surely the most useful part of his charm, and he stepped forward with an angry look to consider his apparent peers about the chamber.

“The Grey Warden has returned!” he said loudly, and Bhelen and Harrowmont both turned then, and Steward Bandelor with them. Eideann stood before the dwarves of the Assembly and faced them down in return.

“We should let the Warden speak,” Harrowmont finally said. “What news do you bring?” Eideann’s eyes flickered to him a moment, then back to the others of the Assembly, and she motioned to Alistair.

“I bear a crown from Paragon Caridin for his chosen king,” she told them in a loud, clear voice, Highever brogue ringing out across the stone chamber and echoing softly. They were silent then, a hush falling over them all as Alistair held the crown aloft.

“Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem!” Oghren continued. “This Warden granted him the mercy he sought, releasing him and destroying the Anvil of the Void.” Actually Oghren had done that, but he was embellishing now. Eideann’s eyes bore into Harrowmont and Bhelen. “Before he died, Caridin forged a crown for Orzammar’s next king, chosen by the ancestors themselves!” A nice touch, given the Provings. The Ancestors favored fighting the Blight. Caridin had left the choice to her in the end.

“And we are supposed to trust this?” Bhelen said gruffly. “The word of a drunken sot and a Grey Warden known to be in Harrowmont’s pocket?!” Eideann just gave him the slightest of mirthless smiles.

“I have walked the Roads to Bownammar, Ortan Thaig, Caridin’s Cross, and Cadash. I have seen the Archdemon singing in the bowels of the earth. Ask the Legionnaires and they shall tell you the truth of it.”

“Lies!” Bhelen declared angrily.

“Silence!” Steward Bandelor said, his voice quieting all the noises that had begun to echo in the hall. He considered Eideann then and she met his gaze back, eyes the color of rain, fierce and burning with fire. Then he beckoned to Alistair to bring forward the crown.

His hands skimmed over the surface, and he turned it over in his hands, considering it. Then he looked up, a little awed.

“This crown _is_ of Paragon make,” he said in wonder, “and bears House Ortan’s ancient seal.” He held it carefully, and Eideann’s eyes followed Alistair as he returned to her side, look hard. She glanced back to the Steward, who was considering her with thoughtful eyes. “Tell us, Warden: who did Caridin choose?”

“He wished me to give it to whomever I chose,” she said flatly. Her eyes never left the Steward, but she could feel Harrowmont’s nervous demeanor, could sense Bhelen’s rippling anger.

“The Grey Warden knows nothing about us!” the prince spat. “Why would a Paragon entrust someone like this with such a weighty decision?! This is ridiculous!” The Steward silenced him with a look.

“We’ve argued in these chambers for too long. The will of the Paragon is that the Grey Warden decide.” And just like that the power was in her hands, after all of the trials to get to that point. She had won the Proving to win the ancestor’s favor for the nobility and the warriors. Zevran had won her the poor and the merchants and the smiths and the servants by crippling the Carta and freeing them from Jarvia’s oppressive regime. And now a Paragon had given her the power to choose the next king, and Bhelen had decided it would be Harrowmont because of all that work she had done. He was not political enough to see the twists and turns. He had not paid attention. And Harrowmont, too trusting by far.

“I have shown,” Eideann said, “that the ancestors favor battling the darkspawn, no matter who is king. My people have brought down Jarvia and liberated the lower classes from the oppression of the Carta, so they can occupy themselves instead preparing for what will come next. I have seen the wonders of the dwarven empire that stretched below all of Ferelden once, from the darkspawn breeding grounds in Bownammar to the sunken wonders of Cadash Thaig and the birthplace of Caridin himself in Ortan Thaig. And I have seen what happens to dwarves when the darkspawn win.” She looked to the other deshyr then, eyes cold. “I have seen the taint devouring the ancient thaigs, corrupting the lost and the betrayed. I have seen the darkness that threatens at Orzammar’s gates, and I know that the soldiers you have will never be able to defend it. Not alone. Not like this. I know that it cost the lives of some of the best dwarven citizens to make the golems on the Anvil of the Void. One of them stands here now, Shayle of House Cadash, volunteer from the first Blight under King Valtor to protect this city against the Archdemon Dumat and all his force. I know the costs. I know what happens when you fall, when you fail.” She turned back then to the Steward, drawing a breath. “Caridin gave the decision to me, and I make the decision to save Orzammar, from itself if need be. I may not understand the particulars of dwarven intrigue. I need only know that your short-sighted ways will destroy you. And it is my duty as a Grey Warden to prevent that however I can.” She looked to Harrowmont. “I never was your supporter,” she said firmly, watching as realization dawned in his eyes. “I never swore myself to you. I won the Provings for the Grey Wardens. We defeated Jarvia and earned the gratitude of the people, not you. The consequence of doing nothing, changing nothing, is oblivion.” Her eyes slipped to Bhelen. “ _Your_ power is corrupt, and your pride dangerous. You would sell out anyone to achieve your own goals. Many hate you for it, and perhaps I am among that number. But you do see a way forward, a way that has been set in stone so long no others will move. We pay for our recalcitrance in blood.” She grimaced. “The Grey Wardens will have our army. And we will not forget that Orzammar nobility did its best to avoid upholding the treaties that were signed.” She turned to the Steward then, and her eyes flickered to Bhelen. “The crown is Bhelen’s, and now I shall have my army.”

They stared, all of them, confused. And then Bhelen’s eyes narrowed.

“You…leave me speechless, Warden,” he finally said after a moment.

_Good. Stay that way._ The proceedings were fairly quick from there. Eideann and her group shuffled to one side as Bhelen descended the steps for his crown. The dwarven deshyrs hammered their staves down against the floor, until an echoed beat filled the hall to match his footsteps. Steward Bandelor stepped down after him, and Bhelen knelt to received it. The Steward placed it on Bhelen’s head.

“Let the Memories find you worthy,” he intoned, “first amidst the lords of the houses, the king of Orzammar.”

Bhelen rose, and the Steward stepped backwards, and then the new King of Orzammar turned to Harrowmont who still stood atop the platform beside the Assembly throne.

“Do _you_ acknowledge me as King?” Bhelen demanded, his voice cold and cruel. Harrowmont gazed at him a moment, and then his eyes flickered to Eideann who met them. Then the elderly dwarf sighed, sinking to one knee.

“I…cannot defy a Paragon,” he said softly. “The throne is yours…King Bhelen.” Bhelen watched him a moment, then looked about the room, and his eyes were cold.

“Then as my first act as king,” he announced in a louder voice, “I call for this man’s execution!” Alistair took a step forward, but Eideann put out an arm and held him back. “Guards, seize him!”

“You’re just going to let this happen?!” Alistair demanded, and Eideann glanced to him sidelong.

“This is as it must be. A leader surrenders publicly, and makes his opponent’s claim legitimate. And then those who do not accept those words, that surrender, see it only as a path to more war, must be silenced. This was only going to end one way,” she said quietly. “And this is the order of the King of Orzammar.”

“Why wait?!” Alistair hissed. “Why not just let Zevran do whatever he was planning?! The outcome is the same!” Eideann’s eyes narrowed.

“No. This King is indebted to us publicly before all these nobles, and this king needs humbling. If Zevran had done it, he would not have to answer to us at all.”

“He will be a tyrant!” Alistair said shortly, quietly. Eideann just turned her face away.

“We pay for recalcitrance in blood,” was all she said.

Things moved fairly quickly after that. The Assembly moved immediately on a number of different votes, finally passing the backlog of policies that were waiting for the King’s election. And Bhelen led them out, accompanied by his guards.

Eideann followed, grim-faced and determined, as he led them to the great Palace of Orzammar, a massive building beside the Assembly which boasted a number of rooms and a great receiving hall for guests and nobility alike. There, Bhelen took the great throne, Caridin’s crown on his head, and considered them.

“You know better than anyone the war facing us, Warden,” he finally said, considering them with sharp eyes. There was cruelty there, and hubris. But also strength. And Eideann latched onto that. “Orzammar could not afford to be divided.”

“I understand,” Eideann replied simply. “And now our army?”

“I will send word to gather my generals and prepare our forces for the surface. You have my gratitude for all you have done for me, of course.” He leaned on the arm of his chair then, sharp eyes peering at her, flinty pinpricks the color of stone. “Without your aid, I would not have taken this throne so smoothly or so soon.” Eideann crossed her arms.

“This kingdom needs a leader with the strength to break with thousands of years of tradition. The Carta is leaderless but not destroyed. There are scrappers and scouts there. Use them. We need all the people we can get.” Bhelen narrowed his eyes and then sat back in his throne, bringing one hand up to brush his braided beard down onto his chest.

“When you have need of us,” he finally said, “you shall have every able-bodied dwarf in Orzammar.” Eideann took that as a promise, and she meant to hold him to it.

“The Grey Warden base at Soldier’s Peak is where our army gathers,” she told him. “That is where we need the dwarven forces to go. We have mages from the Circle, Templar warriors, and Dalish archers already.”

“And Grey Wardens? What of Ferelden’s army.”

“They will be ready,” Eideann said coolly. “Just make sure you are.”

“Of course,” Bhelen said as a few armored dwarven officers filed into the chamber. Bhelen acknowledged them with a grim look. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must discuss this with my generals. The dwarves will be ready Warden. We will not try your faith in us again.” Eideann did not have any faith in his ability to keep that promise, but she bowed her head slightly out of respect. She had made him king after all. “Good luck, Warden,” King Bhelen said softly. “May we both crush our enemies.” He would have many. The nobility now faced a crushing blow. Orzammar would never be the same.

Eideann bowed her way out, then turned on her heel. Alistair followed her footsteps, but it was Oghren who drew alongside her.

“Well, sod…that’s done,” he muttered.

“What will you do now?” she asked him quietly. He sighed, then fixed her with a look.

“There’s no place for me in this brave new world, Warden. All of Orzammar’s fighters are going topside to face your Blight. I’ll go first, I think.”

“You want to come with us?” Eideann asked, a little surprised.

“Nothing left here anyway,” he mumbled, and she nodded, then wet her lips. “Fine. I would be glad of the help,” she told him. He just nodded somberly, then stepped back.

“I…err…I’ll go and get myself plastered,” he muttered, and then disappeared off down the steps towards the Commons and presumably Tapsters. Eideann let him go. She turned instead towards the Shaperate, the documents against her chest within her tunic burning a hole through her, she was so aware of them. She would do right by Caridin and the golems.

She let herself in and introduced herself to a scribe who immediately vanished into the back of the Shaperate and returned with an elderly man with a massive white beard who peered at them with slim eyes and then clapped his hands together.

“Grey Wardens!” he said with a smile. “Impressive work. King Bhelen’s impending coronation has been entered into the Memories.” As if that was why they were there. He introduced himself as Shaper Czibor and took them on a rambling walking tour of his Shaperate. Shayle’s footsteps echoed about the chamber as they followed him. “Is there something more I can help you with?” he said at last, turning to consider them. Eideann pulled the papers forth from her tunic.

“I have something you might be interested in,” she said, holding them forth.

“What’s this?” The Shaper considered her a moment, then took the rubbings and peered down at them before his eyes grew wide. He looked back, excited. “A list of names…Most of these clans no longer even exist! Is this authentic?!”

“It came from a tablet in Caridin’s fortress,” Eideann told him. He stared in wonder, brown eyes shining.

“Then is it true? The rumors of Caridin’s so-called volunteers? Extraordinary!” He carefully laid the papers down on a nearby table and bent over them. “I would love to make a copy of this,” he announced. “The Shaperate has never had much information on Caridin and his golems.” His eyes skimmed up to Shayle who shrugged and turned away to examine a vein of lyrium winding through the wall nearby. “Much less proof of this magnitude.”

“Keep them. I have no use for them where I am going. I doubt the Archdemon will be as fascinated as you,” Eideann said, and the Shaper stared at her a moment, then smiled and nodded, digging about in his pouch before giving in and pressing the whole thing into her hand.

“Warden, I hope this will serve as a reward then.” He gathered up the rubbings gingerly and held them close to his chest. “I must inform the Shaperate at once.” He gave them a bow over the rubbings and then turned away, calling for some of his colleagues. Eideann watched, then glanced back to Shayle who shook her head.

“Squishy creatures, so foolish,” the golem muttered. But the crystals were glowing softly.

Alistair caught Eideann’s arm.

“Are you sure,” he said softly, fixing her with a look, “that we did the right thing here?”

“It’s too late now. We live with our choices,” she told him softly. He nodded, looking troubled, but then he sighed and his fingers laced into hers.

“I…I’m glad you’re safe,” he told her gently. She met his gaze, and he blushed slightly. “I was worried.”

“Me too,” she admitted, and nudged him towards the door. They could talk and walk. “I…about that night…before Ortan Thaig.” Hesitation flickered in his gaze and she felt his body tense.

“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly, timidly. She shook her head.

“No. Never. I am glad it happened. I just…wanted to make sure you were alright,” she told him.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Your desire is my command,” he told her with a smile, shaking his head. “I…Eideann, I don’t know what will happen by the end of this. I told you then in the cave.”

“It is speaking of thoroughly disgusting things,” Shayle suddenly said and Alistair released her hand like burned, going bright red.

“It’s none of your business!” he shot back. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?”

“Privacy? That thing the squishy villagers wanted when they sat at my feet and did disgusting things? Blegh.” Eideann just smiled, then laughed, turning away and running a hand into her hair. It felt so soft now, so clean. She reveled in the feeling a moment. How long had it been since she was actually properly clean? Maker, too long.

She looked to Alistair who was bright red and staring at her with his eyes like molten gold, and then she reached to catch his hand.

“I am glad for that night,” she told him firmly, and he nodded. “Whatever may come, at least we had that.”

“I thought…in Bownammar…” She felt her heart drop and she looked away, forcing away revulsion and fear. He noticed and she swallowed, hard.

“I never want to see anything like that again,” she told him fiercely. “And the worst part is that I will. I’m a Grey Warden. I will see it again. The darkspawn are evil, tainted creatures. The worst part is that taint is already within you and me. And I hate that more. What if…what if we…”

“Hush.” His word was like a command, so soft and firm she followed it unthinkingly and even he looked a little startled at the power of it. “Eideann, that will never be you,” he said firmly, looking at her. “I swore to you it would not be, and I will keep that promise. But you…you will never let that happen to you. I know you. And I love you.” She peered back and he turned his face away. “Maker…I keep saying these things and…”

She pulled him about then, pressing her mouth to his, hot and desperate, and he surrendered to it, all the tension going from him in an instant.

“And I love you,” she told him, breaking free long enough to whisper the words. “Maker save us.”

“I don’t think he’s listening,” Alistair murmured back and then kissed her again.

But of course they were in the middle of the Diamond Quarter, and attracting stares, so they broke apart, Eideann feeling heated and Alistair still a little red, and avoided the wry looks of dwarven nobles as they made their way back to the house.

Once there, Eideann discovered Sten sitting playing cards with Wynne, or trying to because the elderly mage was insistent on teaching him and he was apparently patiently learning. Leliana was curled in the chair before the fire, hunched over something red she was apparently sewing. Zevran was doling out bowls of stew.

Angus had flopped out on the carpet by the door and Eideann ushered him out of the way before Shayle could squash him on her entry. Alistair let Eideann go as she made her way to Morrigan, who was still working her way through books.

“Is it done then?” the Witch asked without looking up as Eideann sank into a seat beside her.

“Orzammar has a new king, and the dwarves will march for the surface shortly. We will rest here the night and then go south,” Eideann explained for all their benefit. Then she looked at the books. “You said you had found something?”

“Not the Joining, or how to slay Archdemons, but I have found something.”

“What then?” Eideann asked, settling back. Morrigan looked up.

“The locations of the darkspawn prisons.” Eideann sat up again sharply.

“What?”

Morrigan turned the book she was holding about and pointed to a few passages, written in human handwriting and signed with a Warden-Constable’s name at the bottom of the page.

“The prisons of the Archdemons,” she said simply. “It appears there is some truth to them being sealed away after all. And the other Wardens have known those locations for a long time.” Eideann skimmed the page, then looked up.

“So the Watchtower where we first met,” Eideann said simply, “was placed there on purpose, not on accident.”

“Apparently. It was no random tower, certainly. And the treaties were there. It would be safe to assume the Wardens had been preparing for a long time for such an occurance.”

“And lost their chance,” Eideann sighed, shaking her head and pushing away the book. “So which are still holding something?”

“I have no idea. There does not seem to be any specific delineation.”

“So we don’t know which Archdemon this one is?” Morrigan gave her a flat look and Eideann sighed.

“Right. Fine. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Morrigan said simply. “I have learned how the darkspawn breed.” Her look was cold and she grimaced. “Tis…not pleasant.”

“Spare me,” Eideann said, standing up. “I know that already.”

“So the dwarves were right when they said the Dead Trenches were where the darkspawn bred,” Morrigan mused. “Your map while you were down there suggests the area was beneath Ostagar. It makes sense that they would breed somewhere close by.” Eideann nodded, since she had come to much the same conclusion herself, and then turned her face away.

“Thank you for trying, Morrigan,” she said slowly, then rose to cross to the cooking pot where Zevran handed her a pot of the bubbling stew. “Nug again?” she checked and he grinned.

“Yes. But tomorrow I plan to get you to help me hunt mountain ram. We shall have lamb,” he insisted and she grinned, shaking her head.

“Make me do all the work, I see,” she grinned and he gave her a sly look.

“ _Bella_ , what would you have done if Alistair did not reach me in time?” he asked. She sighed, sipping her stew and finding herself ridiculously hungry. Then she looked up at him over the top of her bowl.

“Cursed myself for a fool and then changed the plan,” she said simply. “But I did hope it would not come to that. It was mainly on the assumption I died in the Deep Roads with everyone that I made the plan that way at all.” Zevran smiled and she reached under her tunic to pull forth the clock filled with lyrium. She held it out to him, unlooping it from her neck, but he shook his head and refused to take it back.

“A gift, _Bella_. Perhaps it will come in useful next time you visit the scenic dwarven empire?” Then he drew away and left her standing before the fire, sipping her stew and tasting the nug rich on her tongue, flavored with deep mushrooms.

Part of her longed for nothing more than fruit.

“Alright, Leliana,” she said suddenly, never once turning from the fire. “What do we know of Haven?” The bard smiled and shifted in her seat.

“Sit down, Eideann. This is quite a story.”

***

Maker, it was incredible climbing back out of the mountains. The air grew clearer by the second, with ever step through the tunnels they took, and it was wonderful. If she had her way, she wouldn’t return until they buried her ashes in their grave.

Oghren was slowing beside her, and she realized why as soon as they reached the gates. The vast expanse of the sky opened up before them, bright and blue and bold, clear in the mountain air. She heard herself breathe deeply, and saw Zevran and Alistair doing much the same. Oghren, eyes squinting against the bright sun, stopped in his tracks, peering up at it from the gates.

“By the stone,” he grumbled, “I feel like I’m about to fall off the world with all that sky up there.” Eideann gave a soft laugh, shaking her head, because she felt much the same when she descended into the earth. But she knew he would not thank her for making fun of him, so she just turned and considered him.

“Take your time,” she said quietly. “I need you ready to fight.” It let him save face a little, so he drew himself up, puffing out his chest.

“I’m not gonna be put off by a high sodding ceiling,” he snffed, then nudged her with a grin. “Well, let’s get moving. WE’e losing…watcha call it?” He thought for a heartbeat or two then nodded. “Daylight.”

Eideann watched as he descended the steps first, and then she could not keep the smile from her lips.

It was almost spring, flowers threatening to blossom at any moment from the branches of the trees that wound down the valley. She did not know yet what damage the darkspawn had wrought while she was beneath the ground, and for a moment she forced herself not to care. She was done with Orzammar, done with the elves. The mages were waiting, the Circle at arms. And there, in the high Forstback Mountains, she was at peace for the first time in a long time.

Her direction was clear, her path before her. She had only one task left: Ferelden. So she set her sights then on her homeland down from the valley sprawling out in the distance as far as the eye could see.

And she felt the world shift about her then, the sense of her soul shifting to something new. The Warden had done what the Warden must do. Now, it was time for Eideann Cousland to become the Teyrna.

Her eyes met Alistair’s beside her and his fingers crept into hers.

_Together,_ it promised. _As always._ Let Loghain send his men. She had her army. And nothing was going to stop her now.

She could almost hear the drums of war sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END DANCES IN DARKNESS BOOK 3: WARDEN**   
>  [Dances in Darkness Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/241561)   
>  [ Dances in Darkness - Book 4: Hero](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4195746/chapters/9477696)
> 
> Thank you for reading Book 3! ~HigheverRains


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